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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24528682">Overwritten</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon'>SlytherinsDragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holmescest Works [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blackmail, Boys In Love, Case Fic, Dubious Morality, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Mycroft, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Romance, Serial Killers, Sherlock Whump, Slow Burn, eating issues, holmescest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:29:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>58,689</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24528682</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns back to London after the Fall, he is more broken than anyone had imagined. Mycroft takes the initiative to look after him.<br/>-----<br/><i>“It wasn’t a lark around the world. Certainly not in Serbia.” Sherlock is willing to give that much. </i></p><p>  <i>“Believe me. I know.” Mycroft pats his hand, in lieu of anything else he could think of. </i></p><p>  <i>“That’s what John accused me of. That I left for as a joke.” Sherlock looks once-again at the verge of tears.</i></p><p>“But that’s not what you dream –”</p><p><i>“Mycroft. Don’t. I can’t.” Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “Not now. Maybe…” His eyes meet Mycroft’s – the irises an ocean of colour. “Not ever.” </i><br/>-----</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holmescest Works [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>450</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts">LadyGlinda</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a fic I wrote to indulge a plot bunny. There are definitely references to torture/rape scenes scattered throughout this fic, so if you are leery of that, not the fic you would want to read. </p><p>Gifted of course, to the magnificent LadyGlinda who supports all my holmescestual tendencies...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Lock. Lock! Wake up!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft frantically shakes his brother awake, only to be met with a half-powered punch that he catches easily by the wrist for his troubles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he had pushed open the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, his brother had been writhing – fisting the bed sheets tightly in both of his hands – half-whispering and pleading, his words unintelligible yet broken. So broken that it squeezes at Mycroft’s supposedly non-existent heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock, please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother goes still for a second, his unkempt sweat-drenched curls hit the mattress – missing the pillow by barely an inch. He blinks once, one eye still swollen from the brunt of another punch – delivered by the ever-so-faithful Dr. Watson. Sherlock looks dazed – confused for a second, before recognition dawns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Myc…” His throat sounds parched. His breathing is rapid. “Wha… What are you –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I do every night, little brother.” Mycroft sighs tiredly, stifling a yawn. “Keeping watch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keeping watch over –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You. And before you fight me on this, someone has to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You weren’t there last week, when I had insomnia.” Mycroft has to strain hard to make out Sherlock’s words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I decided to this week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not… an… invalid.” The three words are delivered forcefully – a mix of annoyance, pride and frustration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you are not.” Mycroft says placatingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am just fine –” Sherlock attempts to get up, and he winces as his abrupt movement pulls at the skin of his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you wake me up? I was asleep for once!” Sherlock grumbles unhappily, his hand goes up to rub at his sticky eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you were yelling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thus – keeping you up, brother </span>
  <em>
    <span>dear?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft huffs with part exasperation. Based on the documentation of the medical exam, he can approximate what kind of physical horrors his brother had gone through in Serbia, but the mind is always a tricky business. Even more so with them. Sherlock had scoffed loudly at the idea of having psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists – you name it – poke around his brain. Even the ones that the MI6 and the MI5 have on staff to deal with agents coming back from similar traumatic situations. And there are some traumas that not even Sherlock will ever be able to delete or suppress. Mentioning them, Mycroft is sure, will be equivalent to detonating an improvised-explosive-device – or perhaps a nuclear bomb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, just trying to preserve the sanctity of sleep for everyone else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How noble of you.” The sarcasm is as sharp as ever. “Now, if you do not mind, I am going back to sleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wincing again, Sherlock pointedly turns away from his brother and curls up on his side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please… no. Don’t…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words degenerate into broken moans, tears – mumblings that vaguely sound like “Stop.” and “No.”. Mycroft stands at the bedroom door, unsure about how to proceed. There is the percussive noises of Sherlock banging and thrashing against the mattress with his fists and feet and then a heartstopping thump – that serves as Mycroft’s cue to enter his brother’s sanctum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock had fallen off the bed. He is groaning in pain. His hair is once again a disheveled sweat-matted mess and his eyes are puffy and red from crying. In short, he looks awful. Worse than any other night that Mycroft had seen him. Mycroft sits down next to his brother. Sherlock’s eyes acknowledge his presence, but little brother stays mum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft whispers. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, his words cautious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… you are still here.” There is surprise in Sherlock’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose… you saw the reports.” His brother says, tonelessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have.” Mycroft nods. “But, of course – it’s not the complete picture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t a lark around the world. Certainly not in Serbia.” Sherlock is willing to give that much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe me. I know.” Mycroft pats his hand, in lieu of anything else he could think of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what John accused me of. That I left for as a joke.” Sherlock looks once-again at the verge of tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But that’s not what you dream –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft. Don’t. I can’t.” Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “Not now. Maybe…” His eyes meet Mycroft’s – the irises an ocean of colour. “Not ever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the toss of Sherlock’s head, Mycroft says. “Wait. Stay here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets up and goes to fetch some water and a board game that he had brought. Something silly and mindless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snakes and Ladders, Mycroft – really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They play several surprisingly dramatic rounds, before Sherlock starts nodding off. Mycroft helps him back onto the bed, and tucks him in – before trying to catch a few last winks on Sherlock’s couch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock adamantly shakes his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need to eat, brother mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft informs him. Earlier, he had learned from his brother’s landlady that his brother lives off whatever scraps of food that she could persuade him to take which is barely anything at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t wanna.” Sherlock crosses his arms, looking very much like his childhood self.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock. Please. You are withering away. You’ve lost at least five pounds since I’ve started coming here in the evenings. I am worried, Lock.” Mycroft says – his tone serious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t. I want to throw up every time I eat, brother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there something that doesn’t make you sick? Soup? Name it, and I will find it –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you have work?” A weak attempt at a distraction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s Saturday, Lock. I am going to be here, whether you like it or not.” Mycroft’s words are firm. “Barring any national emergency, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Sherlock tries for bratty, but it misses the mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what will we have then?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother steeples his fingers together for a minute or so, before saying quietly. “Congee. I will try that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will order it then.” Mycroft finds a nearby takeaway menu for Chinese from a stack of flyers and starts dialing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said you would eat.” Mycroft feels very much like he’s dealing with a toddler. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t feel like it now, My…” Sherlock says listlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From what I understand, brother – you had three ginger nuts, two bites of a vanilla cake, four grapes and a mug of tea yesterday. I don’t think that is compatible with life, Lock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My… why do you care?” Sherlock asks dejectedly, his eyes sharp. “No one else does. You haven’t slept properly all week because of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I care, Lock. God.” Mycroft scoots his chair closer to him. Suddenly uncomfortable at his burst of sentiment, he asks on a whim. “Would you eat if I fed you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without waiting for his brother to reply – he takes the spoon and dips it into the plain congee topped with pork floss and scallions. Carefully he samples the food to make sure it won’t scald his brother’s mouth and brings the aromatic spoonful to Sherlock’s lips. Amazingly, his brother parts them, and allows the spoon’s tip to pass into his mouth. Mycroft pulls away the utensil when his brother takes the food. Sherlock chews it slowly and eventually swallows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manages to feed a quarter of the styrofoam container to his brother, before Sherlock refuses again with a toss of his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When was the last time you showered, Lock?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you implying that I stink, brother?” There’s a hard defensive edge in his tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least there’s a sign of life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighs deeply. “You don’t exactly smell like roses.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Sherlock stands up from the chair that he had been sitting listlessly in all day, almost as if he had been in a state of catatonia. It’s disturbing to see his once wild and energetic </span>
  <em>
    <span>(and vain)</span>
  </em>
  <span> brother behave as such. “I will go shower.” There’s a slight glint of mischief in his eyes which fills Mycroft with some relief. “Before you offer to bathe me. But…” His brother trails off, looking unsure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what, Lock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can wash my hair. But I will wash first so you don’t complain about me offending your sensitive nose.” With that, Sherlock heads for his room, and minutes later – Mycroft can hear the shower running. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock kneels at the tub as Mycroft shampoos his curly locks while sitting on a stool. Unexpectedly, Mycroft finds it relaxing, feeling his own worries melt away. Sherlock grits his teeth and clenches his fists at the beginning, looking as if he is undergoing some form of terrible torture at Mycroft’s touch, but before Mycroft could suggest stopping, his brother manages to slacken and enjoy it somewhat. After Sherlock rinses the shampoo off and allows Mycroft to apply the conditioner, he says neutrally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Mycroft. Aside from Lestrade’s brief hug when I got back, it’s been a long time since someone touched me without violence.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no need to apologize for that.” Mycroft soothes, as they wait for the conditioner to set. An apology. He hadn’t been expecting that. Not that it had been needed. He adds, amusedly. “I rather like you like this. On your knees. Being compliant for once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmph.” Sherlock crosses his arms in protest, but Mycroft doesn’t miss the brief contemplative look in his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop. Stop. Please…” Sherlock thrashes in his bed, his syllables desperate – echoing in the otherwise silent flat. “No, please… not that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft stands at the door and watches. Since Sherlock had been trying to keep a regular bedtime, the dreams happen at around the same time each night, at the same stage of sleep: REM. The medical advice seems to be to let the dreams carry on, but it’s of little comfort to Mycroft – who can only begin to imagine the disturbing contents of these nightmares</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Sherlock abruptly sits upright, panting as if he had run a marathon, or had just fled from Hell. Hell he certainly resembles – his locks in wild disarray, dark circles under his eyes and sweat soaking through his pyjamas. There is a feral look in his eyes, as they dart back and forth – trying to come to grips with himself. His hands have a death grip on the covers, and he shakes himself, as if trying to free himself from some malevolent influence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes are bright in the dimmed room and eventually he notices Mycroft leaning against the doorframe. Sherlock struggles to control his breathing, trying to take prolonged inhales and exhales to slow the rate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How human he looks with his transport running amok! Out of his rigid control! As much as little brother had always denied it, the external and the internal are very much interconnected. The external casings – the human flesh – is indeed a </span>
  <em>
    <span>transport</span>
  </em>
  <span> but it doesn’t just serve to house the brain, but it serves to bring forth the sensorium required to interpret the environment. In nature, it is impossible for humans to exist on a plane of true rationality.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft steps forward, slowly – treating his brother like a skittish animal. Sherlock only blinks blankly in response, and doesn’t react when Mycroft takes a seat on his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not going to tell me to leave?” Mycroft speaks first, feeling out the situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A half-hearted shrug. Sherlock replies seconds later, his voice hoarse. “Why bother? You never do as I say, so I might as well subject myself to the inevitable.” His fingers are still holding onto his covers, his body still trembling. His breaths even out. Quietly he adds. “I don’t have the strength to deal with such futility, Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lethargy and apathy in his words are alarming, despite it being in the middle of the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you dream, little brother?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s grip on his blankets relaxes slowly a tad, before he inquires. “Do you remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What am I supposed to be remembering?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I used to sleep in your bed as a child?” There is a strange childlike tone to his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Mycroft wants to reach out and touch his brother, but remembering Sherlock’s discomfort with the hair-washing, he refrains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Monsters, storms – all external. Now, they are all in… here.” With one trembling hand, Sherlock releases the blanket and points to his head. “Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.” He mumbles. “I… I am locked in with them.” Slowly, his brother moves his hand back down. He murmurs. “There’s no refuge. No shelter.” Then he scoots forward abruptly, and grabs at Mycroft’s wrist. “I want it to stop.” And then finally, he adds sadly. “What is even the point? There’s nothing waiting for me. John’s gone. You will disappear when I am recovered. Like you always do. If I ever get there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wisely does not mention that it is Sherlock who spends all his time chasing him away. “Your cases, brother –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head. “I can barely function, Mycroft. It wasn’t so bad when I just came back and solved that case for you…” He sighs sluggishly and asks. “Do you have something else for us to do? I grow weary of talking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From his pocket, Mycroft takes out a deck of colourful </span>
  <em>
    <span>Uno</span>
  </em>
  <span> cards that some dignitary’s child had left behind at a meeting the other day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He deals seven each. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A loud crashing noise followed by a horrific scream wakes Mycroft up. He rubs the sleep away from his eyes, and he gets up to stand in the darkened living room of 221B. This space has served as his bedroom for the last two weeks, and he finally had one of his agents bring up a mattress as his back has been throbbing terribly for the past few days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peering into his brother’s room, he sees Sherlock – his eyes widened in fear. His mouth is moving, but not a sound comes out. The lamp from the nightstand now lies on the ground, knocked down by one of his brother’s flailing limbs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock. Are you awake?” Mycroft asks, making sure each syllable is deliberate and loud after putting back the lamp and turning it on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother blinks several times, before coming out of whatever he had been experiencing. With urgency he leans forward and grabs Mycroft’s hand, and says. “If you bring me some alcohol, I will talk. The higher the alcohol content, the better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brother… you really shouldn’t –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to tell you or not?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Mycroft’s feet take him back out to the living room, where the liquor (presents from clients, presumably) is gathering dust in a cabinet. He grabs a cheap bottle of vodka that he wouldn’t ever be caught dead drinking, and contemplates the glassware in the kitchen. Deciding on a shot glass – he brings it back with him into Sherlock’s room. He removes the screw-cap of the bottle and decants a shot, and gives it to his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He won’t drink any. There’s an important treaty that needs to be discussed with the Japanese the next morning. His brother looks at the liquor, makes a face and then drains it. He hands the glass back to Mycroft and pats the space on the mattress beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft obediently goes to sit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You drink one too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Mycroft – non-negotiable.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Mycroft reluctantly pours one out for himself and tosses it down. Revolting. He’s definitely brushing his teeth after. He turns to look at his brother, who appears to have entered some sort of trance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where… do I even begin? I don’t even know anymore. My disguise was compromised, brother – and it was my own fault. I should have waited. But, no – I wanted to go home. To Baker Street. To…” Sherlock swallows audibly. “To John. Mrs. Hudson. My Strad. Even… you. To hear the rain patter on the roof. To drink a properly brewed cuppa. I don’t remember everything – it’s all a blur. Any structure that I had to contain these memories is long gone. They chained me, Mycroft. Shackled me to the wall. Was forced to stand – I don’t know how long. Every time I tried to fall asleep, someone was always there to wake me up. Every few… I don’t know – hours – they marched me into a small room and asked me questions. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Where do you come from?’ ‘What is your purpose for coming here?’ ‘How did you know about us?’ I would say nothing, and they would beat me. Food. There was gruel and water. Disgusting. Felt like retching every time they fed me, but at least I knew at that point how many hours had gone by. I had to piss and defecate on myself – although the last few days they started hosing me down with cold water. It was like this for a few days, and then – he came…” Sherlock seems to retreat into himself. “Petrović.” His tone is flat. Somehow, he sounds as if he’s not here, but kilometres away. His breaths grow deeper, slower – he holds a hand out, and Mycroft pours another and hands it to him. Sherlock’s hand trembles – spilling just a little, but he brings the glass to his lips and drinks it, precariously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t return the glass to Mycroft, and Mycroft doesn’t ask for it back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He… he looked at me. Shook his head. Said to the other guards. ‘You are not doing it right. Look at this…’” Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed. He exhales shakily and narrates on, as if he’s reading an encyclopedia. “‘Pretty boy. Obviously a faggot. Look at his lips. Born to suck…’” The glass visibly trembles in Sherlock’s hand now. “‘Cock.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. Mycroft can see what comes next. It’s horrifying. It’s too bad the man is dead now, or Mycroft would have sent him to another unscrupulous man who liked to play with his prisoners on behalf of the Americans. The CIA. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He… pulled it out. He told me to suck, and make it good. I kept my mouth closed. He slapped me. Hard. If it wasn’t for the shackles, I would have fallen over. I could feel his handprint burning on my cheek. In fact, I can feel it now. Fuck.” He closes his eyes again, and tries again. “I still refused. He slapped my face with his… penis. Both sides. He laughed. They all laughed. Then, one of the other men walked over and forced my jaw open, and…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brother. You don’t have to go on.” Mycroft is alarmed. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but Sherlock shrugs it violently off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t touch me!” He yells. And then he adds contritely. “Don’t touch me when my mind is full of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I don’t need your touch to be corrupted too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft feels absolutely helpless. This is awful. His brother looks like a wreck, still shaking – almost at the verge of tears despite the clinicalness of his tone. He should have found Sherlock sooner. Should have brought him back and let his own men finish the last cell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He-he… came by every few hours, and repeated this. One time, when he finished, he –” Sherlock looks absolutely mortified. “Pissed on me. My hair, my face – dripping all the way down my neck, my body –” His brother starts to break down here, and Mycroft can’t even touch him. “They didn’t hose me off until the next day.” He makes out between quiet sobs. “I had to eat like that. And I threw up.” The glass falls out of Sherlock’s hand, and Mycroft grabs it before it could fall on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we should call it a night, brother.” Mycroft says, but Sherlock vehemently shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Better get it all out.” Sherlock rubs at his face, trying to compose himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mycroft steels himself too. He hadn’t known about the blowjobs and the piss, but he knew about </span>
  <em>
    <span>this.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The medical report had reported it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He called me a slut. A whore. Repeatedly. The day before I was rescued, he came up to me with this gleeful grin and said ‘Today we are going to make you a woman.’ They unshackled me, and tied me up to a table. I knew what he was going to do. I retreated into myself, as far as I could go. He told me he was going to make me enjoy it. He used lube. Fingers. He touched me. That was the worst. I got hard. He laughed. Told me that I was gagging for it. ‘Proper little faggot. Sweet little tart.’ He said. And then he…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock cries then. It’s devastating. Mycroft has never felt such rage in his life. He stands up, wanting to go inflict tremendous violence on something but stops himself before he passes through the door. If he leaves now, Sherlock would never forgive him. Or trust him again. This he intrinsically knows. So he allows himself to pace, to work out his fury – while Sherlock tries to stop crying, hiccuping loudly – wiping at the snot and tears with the back of his hand. Five minutes of oscillation later, Mycroft sits back down, and his brother’s sobs have turned into sniffs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t a tart. Or a slut. I never had sex before, brother. You know this. I felt so dirty. So violated. No amount of showering would ever make me feel clean, so I stopped… until you made me go wash myself the other day. Some nights, when the dreams come, I wake up hard. And that’s the worst.” Sherlock then shakes his head. “No that’s not the worst. He took away something from me that I had never had. Ruined it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He ruined sex.” Mycroft says, flatly. So his brother wasn’t asexual. An overwhelming sense of guilt threatens to consume him. “For you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock. I should have –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Mycroft. Don’t bring yourself into it. I should have waited when it was safer to infiltrate the cell. I was too arrogant. Too certain.” He sighs resignedly. “It is what it is. Fuck – I want a fag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I quit, brother. Don’t have any on hand.” Mycroft says, feeling rather regretful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I deduced that. I don’t have any either. Went back to the patches when I got back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it safe to…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looks frantic. Nervous. On edge. Like a trapped and frightened animal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nevermind. I am sorry for bringing it up –” Mycroft says with remorse, wanting to slap himself. Of course Sherlock doesn’t want to be touched now. Not after relieving himself of all this nasty physicality. Selfish on his part. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you… get me water?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Mycroft stands up, and is all too relieved to go have a chance to compose himself outside of the bedroom. Sherlock’s retelling of the sordid tale seems to have released some sort of malignant miasma into the space. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock drinks the water that Mycroft brings back. He seems calmer now. Less guarded. He hands the cup back to Mycroft and says. “I think we should sleep now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Mycroft moves to stand up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My… I don’t want to be alone. Sleep here. With me.” Sherlock gestures to the empty side of the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Let me brush my teeth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Sherlock turns away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft quickly goes to the loo to scrub the taste of lousy alcohol out of his mouth. He can’t help thinking – how long did Sherlock have to go with that loser’s sperm in his mouth, before they gave him any sort of water to wash it away? Fucking bastards. He shudders as he brushes. Undoubtedly Sherlock didn’t have the luxury of brushing his mouth either. He finishes, spits, rinses – and heads back, where Sherlock had been waiting for him. Mycroft climbs into the bed, and slides under the covers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels warmer than usual. Sherlock notices, when he regains consciousness. Something or rather someone is holding on to him, and he’s not freaking out. Mycroft. Big brother. Fuck. What kind of madness was that anyways? He had told big brother everything. And his brother is still here, with his arms wrapped securely around Sherlock’s torso, but not tight enough to agonize his healing wounds. He doesn’t turn around to look at his brother, he closes his eyes instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s amazing what one takes for granted until someone takes everything away. This is what it’s like to be held. By someone who cares about him. He would probably never have this again when Mycroft and he returns back to the status quo. No one would touch him. He’s damaged goods. And not even that, Sherlock probably wouldn’t let anyone get that close to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been wrong. The transport and his brain are one and the same. If the transport is hurt, so is the brain. If the transport is made to do despicable things, his brain will still know. And remember. Not to mention that the flesh has memories too. Sometimes he can still feel that stinging first slap on his cheek amongst the other unwanted sensations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tear streaks down his face, and he finds himself crying again. God. If he isn’t sitting listlessly about, he’s breaking down. Shattering further and further into pieces that can never be fit back together again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Hot air brushes against his scalp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tone is caring. Concerned. His brother is awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh…” His brother hushes, just like when Sherlock had been a toddler who had fallen and hurt himself. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one will want me.” Sherlock murmurs. “I used to not care. But now… I do. I want to be held and touched.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Lock. Baby brother.” Mycroft’s voice is surprisingly tender. “I will hold you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But for how long?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you need, little brother.” Mycroft’s words are a caress. A balm to his injured soul. A hand moves up to brush Sherlock’s tears and snot away. “I will always be here for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock lets himself melt against his brother. He’s only thankful that the morning wood that usually plagues him after such lucid dreams is not present. God. Imagine having an erection while being cuddled by your brother?! He would rather not. Mycroft might be forced to take back his words, and Sherlock wouldn’t blame him at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh… stop thinking. It’s not needed or wanted right now.” Mycroft chastises while one of his hands tenderly strokes Sherlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock finds himself grinning despite his tears for the first time in who-knows-how fucking long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His brother was late to work. That thought takes precedent in Sherlock’s mind along with another… that it was nice to be held like that by Mycroft. His brother had nice lean arms. They had started sleeping at the opposite ends of the bed, facing away from each other, and Sherlock deduces that Mycroft had contributed to most of the migration as the flayed skin on his back is still too sensitive for such movement without waking him up. Damn. Who knew his brother was such a cuddler? Amazingly, Sherlock hadn’t woken up when Mycroft had touched him, because he is sure he would have punched anyone who dared… Mrs. Hudson tried to wake him up a few weeks ago by touching him and it really didn’t go well. He had felt terrible on top of his usual baseline of awful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself whistling as he walks over to his table, where his laptop sits. He turns it on. Perhaps, he should do a little googling to see what he could do about his condition without being subjected to the quacks. And the meds. He’s had enough therapy during his drug use days. He also hates taking medications that alter his mood and ability to think. (Hypocritical, he knows!) Fifteen minutes later, he has a list of relaxation techniques and a printout of a PDF that he had found online from a PTSD cognitive behavioural therapy group. He might as well be his own shrink then. Mycroft can make himself useful and help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, Mycroft was late to work. From the cuddling. And Mycroft didn’t go until he had fed every morsel of breakfast to Sherlock – a vegetable and bacon frittata that Mrs. Hudson had prepared the night before for the both of them and a glass of sweetened soy milk. That meant something? Maybe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm… now that he – Sherlock, is acclimated to Mycroft’s touch, it would be within his best interest to secure a constant supply of human touch. Now that he knows that he finds it soothing and that it would work as exposure therapy for his PTSD. Hm… because who else is going to want to touch him? Drumming his fingers against the table, he does some more internet surfing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He seemed livelier today.” Mrs. Hudson informs when Mycroft steps into 221B after having opened the door with his own key. “Didn’t touch any of the food I left him. As usual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Mycroft gives his umbrella a shake, raining water all over the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will bring up a little something for dinner.” She adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh… Mrs. Hudson, you don’t have to –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense. You are doing your part to help the poor dear upstairs, and I will do my part too.” She says firmly – her tone dismissive of any other protest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a curt nod, Mycroft mounts the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. Her poor boy! Nasty unspeakable things had happened to her poor Sherlock during his time away. He had seemed okay when he had first returned, but things had really taken a turn for the worse in the past few weeks. She heard his screams at night. How he gets nervous when she gets too close to him. The one time she had tried to wake him up for a client had resulted in a punch that she had a split-second to move away from. At least his brother is here. Looking more and more exhausted with each day that passes. Someone should look after the poor dear, now that John is gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is greeted with a view of his brother’s denim-clad rear end when he unlocks the door, reminding him instantly of another unforgettable image from that ghastly Adler case. Sherlock is doing… yoga? Somehow – somewhere, his brother had acquired an orange yoga mat and is doing what they called – the downward dog? His feet planted firmly on the ground, his arms outstretched beyond his head with his palms rested on the mat in front of him – his bum elevated in the air. Mycroft gulps and is forced to look away, while Sherlock holds the pose, inhaling and exhaling at a measured rate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts away his coat, briefcase and umbrella. Noticing a stack of loose papers next to Sherlock’s laptop that hadn’t been there this morning, he walks over to have a glance. A PTSD manual, Sherlock had filled out some of the sheets. Things like symptoms and triggers. He picks it up and flips through the pages. If Sherlock didn’t want him to see it, then he wouldn’t have left it here. Pretty much all of it is stuff that Sherlock had mentioned yesterday. Putting it back down, he opts for the couch. Damn. Baby brother looks good. Better than any other day Mycroft had been here. He had washed, dressed and tamed his curly locks. Maybe last night had been necessary. For Lock to move on. </span>
</p><p><span>His brother eventually transitions to a position on his arms and knees, before he acknowledges Mycroft’s presence with a look. Much to Mycroft’s astonishment, Sherlock crawls over to him. Still on his knees – he rests his head against Mycroft’s thigh, and with his hand he grabs his arm and moves it so that his hand is his hair. Getting the picture, Mycroft finds himself combing through his brother’s dark hair. Sherlock makes a happy contented noise, and Mycroft stops questioning the strangeness. Under goals in that manual, Sherlock had written </span><em><span>reacclimation</span></em> <em><span>to touch.</span></em><span> Mycroft is certain that Sherlock had never been petted like this ever, but if he thinks it would help, then what is he to say? </span></p><p>
  <span>The troubles from his day melt away. There had been a critical detail missing in the treaty with the Japanese, so it had gone unsigned. The Prime Minister had been most annoyed, and kept barging into Mycroft’s office all day long without knocking, nattering on and on about pointless things. The sandwich that had been brought in for him had a hair in it, so he had to ask Anthea for another. Lady Smallwood had accosted him before he had managed to leave, talking about fucking roses out of all things! Roses for a minor princess’ wedding! While hinting very unsubtly that Mycroft should be her plus-one at that earth-moving event. It was with great difficulty that he had managed to extricate himself from the situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs. He’s had worse days at the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother’s curls feel silky beneath his fingertips. Instead of the apathetic expression that he wears, Sherlock seems relaxed – and somewhat intent. Determined to overcome this hurdle of touch? Mycroft isn’t a hundred-percent sure. But… why kneel on the hard floor when Sherlock could have laid down the couch instead? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs bearing a tray, there is a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but wisely she does not comment. Mycroft continues with running his digits through little brother’s hair. The tray is deposited in front of them on the coffee table. A chicken and wild rice bake, a bowl of freshly cut fruit, another bowl of creamy pumpkin soup garnished with kale and sesame and a plate bearing a slice of cake. A light vanilla bean cake. The utensils had already been laid out, two sets – but Mycroft already knows that they would only need one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need anything else?” The landlady inquires kindly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shakes his head. “No, thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mrs. Hudson vacates the room, he turns to look at his brother – ready to tackle the next challenge of his day. “I know you didn’t eat anything since I left.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… rather lie here.” Sherlock mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft gently scratches his brother’s scalp, eliciting a sigh. “You have to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Boring.” The tone is a mere ghost of the old disdainful way Sherlock would have used before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It tugs at Mycroft’s chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft picks up a spoon and scoops some of the pumpkin soup. He samples it first, savouring its sweetness. He then holds out a spoonful to his brother who eventually turns to look at it. His iridescent eyes blink at it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not gruel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, Mycroft. It’s hard.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try.” Mycroft gives Sherlock a comforting caress, and his brother slowly leans forward and takes the spoon gingerly in his mouth. He takes the contents and moves it around his mouth for a bit before finally swallowing. Mycroft offers another spoonful and Sherlock takes it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Mycroft rewards him by applying a bit of pressure against his scalp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They would… put the tray on the floor, brother. And I had to eat it like a dog.” Sherlock murmurs, his face buried against Mycroft’s knee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Lock.” Mycroft whispers. “You are safe. No one will hurt you. Or humiliate you. I promise.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One day they took me into the interrogation room. They took out a plate of homemade sarma and told me I could have it all if I just answered their questions. I didn’t. I don’t think my stomach could have handled it anyways. It looked so good...” Sherlock adds quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My brave boy.” Mycroft lets his hand drift lower to touch Sherlock’s back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock flinches a bit at the touch, but immediately relaxes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continue like this. Mycroft gives Sherlock spoonfuls of soup, while feeding himself in between. His other hand continues to maintain contact, gently acclimating his brother to touches on his back, shoulders – and face. Sherlock willingly tries out some rice and has a quarter of the fruit. He turns down the cake. When they are both sated, Mycroft asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do your knees not ache, brother mine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s worth it for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why like this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said… you liked me on my knees.” Sherlock says frankly. “And… it feels safe. Like this. I feel safe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock. That was a joke.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. Indulge me.” Sherlock gives a little sigh tinged suspiciously with pleasure when Mycroft caresses his jawline, letting a finger pad stroke a cheekbone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I will.” Mycroft says, letting his hand return back into his brother’s thick curls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Sherlock gives him a little smile which really transforms Mycroft’s trying day into something else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something nice.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wakes up to the sound of sobbing. There hasn’t been any screaming, agitation or falls off the bed recently, resulting in some lovely nights of sleep for him. He feels alive again. But there’s something about these cries that makes Mycroft’s heart feel like it’s going to fracture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been three weeks now. He had only gone home a handful of times to fetch things that he had needed and to grab the mail. This place has been his bedroom long enough that his feet could navigate the space without the need of light. He carefully opens the door to Sherlock’s room, and with the light of his phone, he can see his brother’s shoulders heaving as he cries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is evidently awake. When he realizes that Mycroft is standing at the door, he looks up warily. There’s a guarded expression on his face that hasn’t been there since the beginning. He looks torn between wanting to order Mycroft out of the room or asking him to stay. Mycroft takes a breath and walks over with the same caution he had practiced during the early days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I woke you.” Sherlock speaks first, his voice still shaky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not new.” Mycroft sits down on the bed. His brother doesn’t react. “You want to talk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock freezes before giving Mycroft an unsure look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” Mycroft turns toward Sherlock, holding his arms in an open position. “Bad dream?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” It’s quiet. “I don’t think I should talk about it.” Sherlock adds, reluctantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Serbia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shake of the head. “No, brother. Sentiment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock. Come here.” Mycroft doesn’t know what this sentiment is. But he knows that his brother has been talking to his Detective Inspector again, solving a few cases via reports and pictures sent through a secure email service. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother has that frightened look in his eyes again. His pupils dart to and fro. Mycroft simply pats his thigh, and it seems to snap him out of it. Sherlock hesitantly crawls forward, before practically throwing himself into Mycroft’s lap. He’s crying again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Lock. Lock. Dear Sherlock.” Mycroft murmurs soothingly. “What sentimental thing is bothering you, little brother?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I care too much.” Sherlock mumbles. “You said before that caring wasn’t an advantage. Guess I should prepare for my heart to be broken.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft thinks about the Detective Inspector. Kind, no-nonsense man. Bisexual. “I am sure whoever you care for would return your sentiments.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother gives him a helpless, hopeless look. “If I ask and if he rejects, I don’t think I will be able to recover from it, brother.” He then laughs hollowly. “That gravestone would finally be of use. Best not to tell.” He then takes a breath and says shakily. “Why would he want me anyways? Sex is out of the question. I won’t be able to please him. I am tainted. Worthless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brother, no.” Mycroft gently touches his cheek. “Your loss would break my heart. Utterly.” He presses a little kiss on Sherlock’s curls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother looks flabbergasted. He seems to curl up tighter around Mycroft, nuzzling his face against his shoulder. A big well-pampered house-cat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A relationship isn’t just sex, you know – Lock.” Mycroft’s arm has snaked around his brother’s back. “Cuddling, looking after one another, sharing feelings, trust – to name a few.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What we have.” Sherlock observes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mycroft finally understands. His hand reaches over to play with a few of his brother’s too-long errant curls. He wraps a few strands around his fingers, and watches the lock bounce as he lets go. As a rule, Mycroft does not do sentiment. But this is baby brother. Someone who had crept into his heart long ago and will not leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He simply holds his brother closer to him, cradling his precious, hopefully on-the-mend Lock. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Things are easier these days. Sherlock still has bad days, but they are fewer. He doesn’t have to walk on eggshells around Mycroft anymore. They haven’t discussed the issue of sentiment further, but it is enough for the present moment. His brother comes to Baker Street directly from work nowadays. The mattress in the living room goes unused more days than not. Big brother’s extensive selection of bespoke clothes and accessories have found a second home in John’s old bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can tolerate Mrs. Hudson’s touch now. She had been ecstatic and insisted on baking a Victorian sponge to celebrate. When Lestrade came over for the first time the day before, he had flinched and gritted his teeth when the detective inspector had come too close. Fortunately Lestrade is kind and perceptive enough not to say anything, but to continue the conversation on who killed Allie Price – a six-year old who had been strangled and tossed carelessly into the Thames. It’s hard to solve cases without seeing the scenes of the crime in person, but he tries his best. Going outside is a hurdle he has yet to have attempted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother will take him out today. A trial run. His heart hammers quickly in his chest at the thought of it. Breathe. He reminds himself – practicing the slow and deep breathing exercises that he had been doing to relax. Sliding down on the yoga mat, he does the downward dog before sliding back up into the standing-forward bend. He then moves into a supported headstand. One of his favourite positions. All the blood rushes to his brain, and his thoughts usually cease. It would have been useful back in the day when his cerebral processes wouldn’t stop running.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprisingly, these exercises do work to relax him. And if Mycroft shows up in the middle, even better. He knows that big brother looks. It’s nothing like the lecherous leer that had been directed at him frequently in Serbia. It is fondness, affection… appreciation. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pretty boy. Beautiful slut. Lovely whore. Faggot. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck him. Sherlock bites down on his lip so violently that it catches him off guard, tumbling forwards with a cry. He hears the sounds of someone frantically running up the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Lock.” The next thing he becomes aware of is Mycroft squatting down in front of him – with a look of deep concern. “You are bleeding.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft gets up and fetches a tissue, before coming back and applying pressure to Sherlock’s injured lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. That’s why his mouth tastes of iron. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the bleeding slows, Mycroft asks. “Everything else okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My ego might be bruised. And my back didn’t appreciate the fall. But I will live.” Sherlock offers a sardonic little smile while he gets up into a sitting position, brushing away invisible lint at the points of contact that his trousers had made with the mat when he had been lying on the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much to his surprise, his brother leans forward and gently brushes his own lips against Sherlock’s injured one. As Sherlock looks at him wide-eyed in wonder, Mycroft cautiously takes his hand and presses deliberate light feathery kisses on his fingertips. His kind blue eyed gaze seems to thaw something within Sherlock’s heart, and he finds himself tearing up again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh… Lock.” Mycroft winks. “He didn’t ruin this for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sherlock says somewhat numbly. Firmly, he reiterates, still in awe. “No, he didn’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Mycroft pats his hand. The same one he had just kissed. “Ready to go, brave boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nods. He can do this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If not for himself, for his brother. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he had to be honest, Mycroft wasn’t even sure why he had done it. Kissed his brother’s cut lip and then brushed dainty but affectionate kisses over each fingertip. Something about his brother lying on that mat, looking so vulnerable. The way he looks after experiencing a potent flashback. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>These days, his brother doesn’t look as broken and empty when these incidents of re-experiencing occur. Sometimes there is a flare of anger – such as what had happened earlier. And other times, there is acceptance. Not in the resigned kind of way, but the type where Sherlock acknowledges that ‘yes, it has happened, but let’s move on’ kind of way. Occasionally there is sadness – where Sherlock needs a good cry, and Mycroft tries to be a good shoulder when his brother needs it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a good thing. A step in the right direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had liked it, the feeling of his brother’s soft plush lips against his own. Little brother’s bereft little sigh when he had pulled away. This type of touch is acceptable then. Welcomed by Sherlock. Guess he could put that on the list of things that can be done between them. Kisses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the kissing of the fingertips! Old-fashioned, nowadays practiced more often in Central and Eastern Europe. Mycroft is positive; however, that it had been the right thing to do. A tender demonstration of devotion and respect. Admiration. That he would stand by his brother’s side to the end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s dark by the time he leads his brother to the outdoor rooftop of the Karibe bar &amp; grill. His brother had held his hand the entire way, squeezing it tight whenever things got a little overwhelming such as when they walked through the crowded reception area downstairs. The seating area is dimly lit, but warmed by cunningly hidden heating elements. It’s a mild December day. The rain had stopped about an hour ago. The petrichor still lingers in the air. It’s dark enough that they can hide in a corner, so that Mycroft can feed his Lock the way he has become accustomed to eating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of kneeling, Sherlock opts to lie down on the cushioned seat, resting his head on Mycroft’s thigh, after Mycroft had done the ordering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay, Lock?” Mycroft asks, letting his fingers, as is their habit, to slide into Sherlock’s neatly arranged curls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s peaceful enough. I can do this. The fresh air is nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will take you to a park next time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds nice. I-I would like that, Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft knows his brother hasn’t left the flat in weeks ever since Dr. Watson and he had solved the bomb threat case. He isn’t even sure about the current status of the friendship between Sherlock and the doctor. Not good, he guesses, as Sherlock never brings him up. Nor has the former flatmate ever visited. Giving his brother the case initially upon his return had probably delayed his descent into this PTSD-laden mess. By keeping his brain occupied just a little bit longer, before it had spare time to process exactly what had gone down in Serbia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bowl of olives and smoked almonds arrive, along with a tumblerful of Balvenie. He sips the scotch first – savouring its rich notes, before offering Sherlock a toasted almond. Mycroft had discovered recently that Sherlock would eat directly from his fingers, and he almost gasps when a warm pink tongue licks playfully at his fingers, cleaning the digits of food-related residue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother’s eyes fixate mischievously on him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Problem?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Mycroft offers a pitless olive next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The same result, only this time Sherlock’s tongue lingers longer, giving his finger a swirl before retreating. His brother is such a tease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A good sign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the rest of the food arrives – fried calamari, a roasted squash salad and sliced duck breast, Sherlock asks tentatively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this a date?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what you want, Lock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A barely perceptible nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then it’s a date.” Mycroft rewards him with a little smile before feeding him a choice bit of duck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s face is flushed – warm. His brother had bought him a cocktail halfway through their meal, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Snow Queen</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He had drunk through the straw and found himself rather enjoying this rum-based drink. Already, he feels a bit tipsy, but the constant presence of Mycroft’s fingers in his hair keeps him grounded. He closes his eyes, feeling the refreshingly cool wind blow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nerve endings in his lip and fingertips still vibrate from where Mycroft’s lips had touched him earlier. It is infinitely preferable to the other sensations that had made similar lasting impressions on his flesh in Serbia. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel Mycroft’s hand caress his cheek, overriding that stinging sensation from the slaps he had received. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still shocking, that big brother – Mr. Caring is not an Advantage – hasn’t lectured him on the perils of sentiment, but instead seems to be toppling headfirst into that same abyss of his own volition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of plates being cleared and another plate being placed on the table makes Sherlock glance up. A rectangular white plate, containing a chocolatey dessert, with crushed amaretti and yoghurt is the only thing left on their table. Mycroft has the spoon in his hand. His brother scoops the dessert, making sure to take some of the yoghurt and amaretti with it – and brings it to Sherlock’s mouth. He takes it, readily – savouring the mix of chocolate, coffee mousse and rum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mmm… Orgasmic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft chuckles fondly. “I take it that you like it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… what is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chocolate delice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock sits up too quickly, feeling his head spin. He compensates by letting his head loll on Mycroft’s shoulder. His brother feeds him decadent spoonful after spoonful and by the time it’s gone, Sherlock realizes that his brother hadn’t had a bite at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s rare enough that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to eat something, dear one.” Mycroft whispers – having deduced his realization, his voice a gentle and tender breeze that caresses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My.” Sherlock mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart had almost stopped at the endearment. The look Mycroft gives him is so fond that Sherlock feels as if he’s on the verge of waterworks again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Delice means delight.” Mycroft murmurs, his eyes looking directly at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand slides up Sherlock’s back, sending the strangest (but pleasurable) frisson to run up his spine. The hand tenderly cups the back of his skull and Sherlock almost blacks out when Mycroft’s lips capture his own inexperienced ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He’s lost, ensnared in the mix of Mycroft’s cologne and his intrinsic earthy scent. It’s electrifying. It’s terrifying. Like hurtling off that unfathomable abyss that Sherlock had been thinking of, reaching terminal velocity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… so delightful.” Mycroft remarks after they separate, sounding very much like he had just indulged in a fine dessert himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His finger reaches out to brush lightly against Sherlock’s lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is still trembling like a leaf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did that really happen? They had kissed in public! Granted it’s a very poorly lit corner, and there are no cameras pointed in their direction. What few goldfish that are lounging about in this swanky rooftop bar at this hour on this weekday evening are each absorbed in their own little worlds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody had noticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too much?” Mycroft’s hand is still in Sherlock’s hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Processing.” Sherlock manages to say, and Mycroft chuckles again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, who knew…” Mycroft muses with amusement. “If I had known that kissing you would send you into such an intriguing disequilibrium, I might have tried that years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock attempts to hit him. Mycroft catches his wrist and brings it up to his lips again to kiss the sensitive skin there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to go?” Mycroft asks after a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head, feeling heady and content in a way he had never felt before. He would like to prolong this sensation, please and thank you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh dear, even his thoughts are polite now! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like it here. Do you have cards, My?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The same deck of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Uno</span>
  </em>
  <span> cards that had been brought out several times before during Sherlock’s sleepless nights comes out of one of Mycroft’s pockets. They get shuffled and dealt, and Sherlock spends the rest of the evening cuddled up close to his brother, playing mindless games of cards.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft has never felt so terrified. He sits bolt upright in his Whitehall office, the words on his desktop screen failing to register in his formidable brain. Falling. Yes. He had fallen and done the unthinkable and succumbed to a devastating acute case of sentiment. He’s been with men before, but never like this. It’s too late for him now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s funny, how he had been so calm the night before, dealing with little brother’s cut lip, kissing said cut lip, brushing kisses on fingers like a scene out of an old Victorian-era courtship romance, having a dinner date in a dark and secluded corner – and fuck – that public kiss. It’s the bravest thing he’s ever done. But bravery as Mycroft likes to think of it is often equitable with stupidity. The alcohol, maybe? His lips tingle with the sensation of Sherlock’s beautiful soft lips against his, his own fingertips can feel the soft, silky texture of those curls and the smoothness of his alabaster skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock had looked like he had just ran into a glass door when they had broken apart, looking so </span>
  <em>
    <span>(adorably?)</span>
  </em>
  <span> confused, dazed and </span>
  <em>
    <span>(cute?)</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh dear. This is utterly ridiculous. Ludicrous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft giggles, unable to suppress it any longer. He can almost imagine Anthea’s wide-eyed look of alarm from such an aberrant sound coming out of his office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes. He knew what Sherlock had meant by caring too much. And it seems, he had just noticed it now. In himself. Even when they had gone home last night, he had kissed his brother’s cheek before Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom to prepare for a shower. He had used the loo when Lock had been done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had slept apart that night. Something, something respecting the sanctity of the first date. Not that Lock would have wanted to have sex with him. If ever. It’s barely been a month since he had returned from Serbia. And Mycroft would never blame him. If his right hand had been good enough before, it should be good enough now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something wrong, sir?” Anthea pops her head curiously into his office. “Your fifteen o’clock has just cancelled. Raincheck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh it’s nothing. Just a bit of whimsy.” Mycroft tries to compose himself, while he pulls up his calendar on the computer. “Thank you for inquiring, Anthea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No more meetings scheduled for today. What is he doing here then? Staring blankly at the screen? He could be with Lock right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what – Anthea? I think I am going to go.” Mycroft stands up from his comfortable armchair, stretching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There it is. The look of shock on her face that Mycroft had imagined earlier. Ever the consummate professional, Anthea lets the expression drop away for a neutral one within a handful of seconds. When he gathers his things, shuts down his desktop and walks out, Anthea calls out from her desk. “Have a good day, sir.” And then an uncharacteristic giggle emits from her. “Flowers are never amiss.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ooh. That cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft shakes his head as he calls for his driver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea can give it as good as his brother at times. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson gives Mycroft a most amused look when he steps into the building. Her shrewd eyes go from the bouquet of bright, cheerful looking flowers to the box of desserts that he had bought from a high-end bakery on the way here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a word.” Mycroft musters with as much dignity as possible, trying to cross his arms with his occupied hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not, dear.” Mrs. Hudson only winks at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Winks!</span>
  </em>
  <span> “His highness is upstairs, busy staring away at who-knows-what. Wouldn’t eat, as expected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve really got to figure out a way to fix that.” Mycroft frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relationship or not, he won’t be here all the time to feed his brother. There will be days where he would have to take trips abroad, or be stuck in the office all day long. Or be working on days on end if an emergent situation arises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These things take time, you know.” Mrs. Hudson says kindly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s amazing how the landlady has thawed out toward him over the last few weeks. “Go up now, I am sure he would be delighted to see you. I will bring up some dinner later.” She pats Mycroft’s forearm, before disappearing behind her flat door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He mounts the stairs, feeling really much like an Alice who had tumbled down a rabbit hole. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock hasn’t moved from the couch all afternoon, sprawled across the furniture like a sphinx. He has an old sketchbook between his forearms. Mummy’s. A precious possession that Mycroft and he had fought over bitterly when they were young adults. Inside it, are page after page of hand-drawn flowers, both wild and tame. Mummy had preferred pencil crayons, Grandmummy had preferred acrylics. Mummy’s were serious and detail-oriented. Grandmummy’s were whimsical – the type that could be found in children’s books. He flips to the last page, featuring a lotus drifting on the waters. It’s his drawing. He had done it as a teen with a pencil. How he had practiced until he had felt confident to follow the quality in the thick velvety pages before him! Today, he had spent the morning colouring it in with a set of old acrylics that he had found in his bedroom – finally finishing the book. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He intends to give it to Mycroft to bury the old hatchet. To start fresh, free of old resentments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should do some yoga. But he doesn’t feel like moving, the drunken spell from yesterday seems to still persist in his vessels. He hears chatting going on downstairs. Mycroft. No way, it’s barely two. He must be hallucinating. His brother never leaves work at such an early hour unless he had pulled an all-nighter or something which hasn’t happened since Sherlock’s return. But the familiar footsteps are already heading upstairs, and Sherlock can feel his heart beating quickly in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh god. What if Mycroft had come home early to tell him that he’s come to his senses? But before despair could strike him fully, his eyes deduce the opposite, that Mycroft has come to join him in this wonderful and most irrational madness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, the flowers – white lilies, yellow roses, blue delphiniums and purple monte casino asters already neatly arranged in a glass vase. When Mycroft places it down on the coffee table, it immediately brightens the room. It reminds Sherlock of their childhood, of him frolicking in Mummy’s garden. It’s lovely, and Mycroft hands him the card that had been attached. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Descend into lunacy with me, dearest.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looks at the card. Then he looks at Mycroft. Wide-eyed. He suddenly bursts out laughing. Laughing so hard that he’s crying. Mycroft stands there, bemused, until Sherlock wipes his face on his sleeve, and says dryly. “I thought you were here to tell me that you’ve come to your senses, brother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never.” Mycroft quickly reassures him, leaning down to peck him on the cheek. He then adds whimsically, “At some point, Lock – madness is a choice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure the schizophrenics would beg to differ, brother.” Sherlock remarks dryly, trying to compensate for his sudden burst of uncontrollable emotion. “And I suppose you bought something to entice me to eat?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, you understand me well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft stands up and walks into Sherlock’s bedroom. He finds a checker-pattern bed sheet in a drawer and drapes it out onto the floor in the middle of the living room. Sitting down on it, he pats his thigh. Sherlock takes the sketchbook and joins him, laying his head down on the indicated limb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that… Mummy’s sketchbook?” Mycroft asks, surprised.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I… I wanted to give it to you.” Sherlock says. “Things weren’t the same after that fight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s when their bickering had started drawing blood, figuratively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, they weren’t. You misunderstood me then, brother. I was afraid that you were going to sell it for drug money, so my intention was to keep it for you until you were sober more days than not.” Mycroft sighs with deep regret. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Sherlock suddenly feels very small. That wasn’t the reason that Mycroft had cited back then, but he knows having Mycroft say that to his face wouldn’t have gone down well at all back then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget it. We will start anew.” Mycroft states firmly after a moment has gone by.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then have it. I finished what I wanted to do with it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drops the book into Mycroft’s lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft takes the offering, and flips to the end. He smiles at the lotus in the waters – having realized that Sherlock had painted it today. Its petals are a shade of an exquisite delicate pink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A symbol of new beginnings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Discoveries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rebirth. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mycroft questions his decision to leave Sherlock alone for a moment for the first time outside the safety of 221B Baker Street while he grabs them some lunch from one of the trendy food stalls nearby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost Christmas, yet the temperatures this week have been uncharacteristically warm. The park is unusually crowded, teeming full of Londoners eager to take advantage of the glorious cloudless day. The longer it takes for the worker to prepare their banh mis, the more antsy Mycroft gets – his fingers expending this nervous energy by pulling at his casually untucked shirt. He feels increasingly exposed without his usual armour of three-piece suit and brolly, but he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to Sherlock and himself – wanting to appear as part of an everyday couple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir.” The worker finally hands Mycroft his bag of food, and with great relief, he sets off to find his Lock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Little brother is sitting under the canopy of leafless branches with his knees drawn up. There’s a notebook of sorts on his lap, and his hand – equipped with a Derwert pencil – moves readily across the page. It’s oddly adorable, the look of concentration on Sherlock’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good. Nothing has happened since he’d been gone. Sherlock doesn’t notice his approach until Mycroft sits down on the plaid picnic blanket. His eyes dart up with a momentary flicker of fear – but he relaxes immediately, once his brain has processed Mycroft’s identity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not used to seeing you like this, Mycroft.” Sherlock says quietly, setting the sketchbook aside, and placing the pencil in the back in its case. Mycroft can see the half-finished energetic sketch of a thrush who had just alighted from a tree branch. A study of motion, rather than detail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No?” Mycroft inquires further – unsure about how to take this statement. He only dresses like this in the safety of his own home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… uh, quite like it.” Sherlock’s lips curve into a small smile, his cheeks pinker than they had been a second ago. His hand reaches out to caress the soft merino of the gray jumper that Mycroft wears in lieu of a coat. “You look… younger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not exactly ancient, Sherlock.” Mycroft rolls his eyes at that questionable compliment. He reaches out to undo the knot of their takeaway bag, and distributes the two banh mis (duck confit for him, and spicy pork belly for Lock) and the shared box of kimchi chips with a mayo based dipping sauce. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean… you look… good. Very good.” Sherlock tries again, reaching out gingerly for a crispy chip. “Cut me some slack, My – I am not in the habit of complimenting paramours.” When the chip reaches Sherlock’s lips, he hesitates. He lowers his arm and sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do it, Lock. You ate by yourself for the most part, yesterday.” Mycroft drops the retort he had for Sherlock’s previous remark in favour of gentle encouragement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Sherlock’s eyes are closed now. “I don’t know why it’s so difficult. I have no problem with showers, even though they hosed me off with icy cold water when they remembered to. Or bodily functions, even though they forced me to soil myself. I never used my hands to eat while I was captured, but… I don’t know. I suppose my behaviours aren’t rational. I just want to be me again. I startle at strangers. I don’t even want to look at them and do deductions like I used to do to pass the time. I can handle Lestrade’s pictures and his recordings and notes of witnesses and suspects, but that’s it. A real crime scene would be far too much.” He then admits, his tone pensive. “I am scared. Mycroft. I don’t think I can be what I was anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dear boy, come here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock crawls over to his brother where he is immediately enveloped in a hug. Unsure what to do with the chip in his hand, he ends up feeding it to Mycroft instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Things will slowly get better, dearest. And, even if you never reach this state of normalcy you dream of, I will always be here. I promise.” Mycroft brushes the lightest of kisses against his brother’s curls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock simply basks in Mycroft’s attention, before his brother grabs a plastic fork and starts feeding him the delicious mix of kimchi, chips and cheese curds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could be an artist. A violinist. A playwright. I don’t care, dearest mine – I just want you to be happy and well.” Mycroft elaborates, while picking up his own banh mi with his free hand – eager to finish it before it gets cold. His other arm is wrapped around his turtleneck-clad brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You might care if I am a starving artist who can’t pay the bills.” Sherlock smirks, while his brother simply strokes his flank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can support my lover.” Mycroft then teases. “You would be a kept man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think I would prefer purloining your credit cards like the good old days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you think about it, Lock – the result is the same. The only difference is that I won’t have to cancel my card.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock takes his banh mi, and takes a large bite – enjoying the juiciness and the spice of the sandwich. Mycroft’s hand immediately goes up to his face with a napkin, wiping the juice off his face with his usual tenderness. Perhaps it’s a matter of security. Of trust. That he can only eat when he’s close to his brother. Or with Mycroft touching him, like he is now. He had known that his brother wouldn’t care if he never returned to what he was before Serbia, but it fills his hollowed being with warmth to have it said aloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This outing – the third time Sherlock’s been out – is lovely. He likes having the breeze blow against him. To see the wildlife thriving through the start of what looks like a gentle winter. Plenty of imagery to keep in his head for sketching later. The park is big enough that despite the large number of people around, everyone is spread out. And of course, there is his brother who has been so patient and so affectionate – even in public. Mycroft had even ditched his fancy formal clothes (even though the ensemble he wears now could be straight out of a luxury fashion magazine) for him. Sherlock doesn’t think he could adore him more. People don’t recognize him here out of his Belstaff, blue scarf and hat, nor do they recognize Mycroft – so he can happily spend an afternoon in the sun with his handsome boyfriend? – no, perhaps lover? – they don’t have sex, but they kiss… hm. Sherlock would have to think about this further. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mummy, please don’t hug me.” Sherlock trembles when Mummy comes rushing forward to greet them in her usual effusive manner at her doorstep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Mycroft could help him, Mummy's arms are already wound tightly around him, and he’s shaking and quivering while gritting his teeth, trying not to cry. He feels like he’s suffocating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t even bear a hug from Mrs. Hudson still, let alone this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy fortunately notices and lets go. She pretends that nothing is wrong and asks. “Is your dear doctor coming later?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sherlock shakes his head, sounding somewhat pained. “No he’s not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too bad. You really shouldn’t hide him, Sherlock! And Mycroft!” She turns her attention to his brother who endures her greeting while Father finally shows up to exchange the usual pleasantries. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am so sorry, brother. Perhaps it was a bad idea to come here.” Mycroft says quietly hours later, after having found Sherlock hiding miserably in a corner of the dusty and neglected attic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had taken him almost half an hour to locate his brother in their parents’ sizable house. The dreaded and much-opinionated Aunt Mildred had actually shown up for Christmas Eve dinner for the first time in several years, and the conversation had been memorable in a ghastly way. Perhaps even more ghastly than Mycroft had remembered in the past. His poor darling had left the table within five minutes after a homophobic slur, unable to do anything let alone eat – overwhelmed with being in an unfamiliar room with people he didn’t spend time with on a regular basis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I could… handle it.” Sherlock murmurs, his eyes filled with unshed tears. “It’s… it’s too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, dearest.” Mycroft wraps both arms around him while kneeling on the hard wooden </span>
  <em>
    <span>(and dusty!)</span>
  </em>
  <span> floor. He gently bestows a kiss to his brother’s temple. “I know. Don’t blame yourself. Let’s leave first thing tomorrow morning. Let’s go make up for this rather –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shitty?” Sherlock offers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shitty.” Mycroft says with conviction. “Christmas. I was going to say abysmal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why Mummy and Father still talk to that old hateful and heinous hag is beyond me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, but Mummy is still the delusional one who thinks you have the hots for Dr. Watson. Thinking you two are probably shagging like rabbits ever since you got back, which of course went down very well with Aunt Mildred.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock giggles – which had been Mycroft’s intent to begin with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On the contrary, brother – I have the hots for you.” Sherlock says with utmost seriousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, really.” Sherlock gets on his knees and leans forward slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft lets himself melt into it. Baby brother had improved greatly in the kissing department over the last few weeks. It has turned into one of their favourite pastimes – to sit on the couch at 221B and snog in the evenings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson had walked in on them a few times, but at that point, it’s too late anyways. She had known from the very beginning. Mycroft is sure about that. During the first such incident, she didn’t even flinch – walking over to the coffee table to place her tray of goodies down and leaving without another word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Otherwise it is safe. Sherlock doesn’t see private clients these days. His DI always texts before dropping by. And no one else comes by to visit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonder what Aunt Mildred would say if she found us here.” Sherlock wonders out loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft permits himself a smirk. “Die of a ruptured aneurysm, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can only hope. But, let me tell you – spite and hate is great for longevity.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kiss again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No spite here.” Mycroft remarks breathlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sherlock readily agrees. “Only sentiment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can live with that, love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft has to pull away after the next bout, feeling a familiar stirring down below. In previous sessions, Mycroft would excuse himself to the loo when things got too heated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother still clings onto him, rubbing his face against Mycroft’s neck and shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, My, not going to run or freak out if you have an erection.” Sherlock whispers, his words muffled against Mycroft’s skin. “That doesn’t alarm me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Christmas dinner does.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… with ghastly family members.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it I don’t belong to –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be silly.” Sherlock admonishes. “You are the only adequate member of the family that I am glad I am related to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft laughs delightedly. “Oh Sherlock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to resist, Mycroft goes in for another kiss – disregarding his erection. He is feeling heady with the hypoxia and want. He worries when his cock brushes against Sherlock’s torso, but his brother doesn’t react – simply continuing their sensual dance of lips with just a tantalizing hint of tongue. Unlike that crackling electric sensation of their first kiss in that rooftop weeks ago, this is a slow and warm comforting build. With so much affection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock breaks the kiss when Mycroft’s cock drags against him again. He says forlornly and with regret. “It’s not fair to you, brother. I am not ready –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. Lock. Don’t worry about it. I am a big boy.” Mycroft chuckles gently. “I don’t even care if you never want it, Sherlock. What matters is that I am with you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean it.” Sherlock is gazing into his eyes, looking for evidence to the contrary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. I adore you so much.” His voice is roughened by sentiment. “My precious one. Dearest mine. Beautiful boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say that last one again, My?” Sherlock murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My beautiful boy. Gorgeous little brother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beautiful whore. Pretty boy.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shivers. Mycroft holds and rocks him comfortingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You find me beautiful.” Sherlock says carefully. His voice is heart-wrenchingly brittle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a spark of determination </span>
  <em>
    <span>(defiance?)</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Lock’s eyes. “Then I am glad. Very glad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mycroft knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock must have cursed his looks when that horrible man had come into his cell and made him do all those despicable things. So many layers of damage and hurt had been inflicted on his brother’s mental and physical states of being. Mycroft is terribly afraid that they may never unearth them all – to let light shine in all places where the festering darkness resides within.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stay in the attic until it is long past Mummy and Father’s bedtime. Sherlock finds himself being reluctantly led downstairs, where Mycroft roots through the Christmas dinner leftovers in the fridge, plating generously things that Sherlock would have liked to have eaten earlier. He props his elbows against the marble of the counter, feeling utterly useless. Fucking hell. He’s so damaged that he can’t even tolerate a lousy family get-together that happens no more than twice a year. What’s Mycroft doing with him? He wonders, not for the first time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nor can he offer him sexual pleasure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears the buttons of the microwave being pressed before strong arms encircle him from behind. Mycroft’s lips brush delicately against his nape and he sighs when stubble scrapes at his sensitive skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh. Stop thinking. Ruminating. Let me look after you, Lock.” His brother’s breath ghosts across his skin, sending warm fuzzy tingles down his spine. “You aren’t worthless, darling boy. You’ve come a long way since the beginning. It takes time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Sherlock wipes at his eyes with his forearm. “It’s just… it feels like I am drowning at times. It wasn’t so bad when I returned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were distracted. These things. They don’t always happen immediately after leaving the scene of the trauma, brother. It happens days to weeks afterward.” When the microwave beeps, Mycroft adds. “If you won’t go to a therapist, dearest – look up negative thoughts and rumination and how to stop them in your spare time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that too.” Sherlock murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard to pinpoint these insidious loops of thought as by the time he notices them, he’s already being helplessly dragged under by the waves. “Maybe… I should go see one.” He probably should; he’s rather sick and tired of being so useless and needy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your choice. Anthea has a good one that can deal with difficult individuals like us. Where do you want to eat, brother mine?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft takes him with him as he takes the reheated dinner out of the microwave and sets it on a tray. He also adds a little plate of rich Christmas cake and pours some mulled wine from a thermos into one of Mummy’s fine glasses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anywhere.” Sherlock smiles. “As long as it’s with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you sap.” Mycroft remarks fondly and turns his neck to place a kiss near his ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock kneels between Mycroft’s legs on one of Mummy’s prized cushions, resting his head against a thigh. He hasn’t eaten like this in a while, having been diligently working his way up to eating at a table with his own cutlery in preparation for today. Mycroft indulges him tonight. Still, he isn’t quite sure why this position is so comforting, but perhaps it’s because he is surrounded by Mycroft, who he has come to associate with safety. He knows that Mycroft finds it a little unsettling, finding it a rather submissive position, but Sherlock doesn’t see it that way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels sated and adored, full of turkey and its stuffing, sea bass in puff pastry (an experimental recipe), Yorkshire pudding and bits of cake while Mycroft’s knowledgeable fingers stroke his curls in the ways that make him purr. His brother had eaten with him, evidently not having eaten much once Sherlock had fled from the dining room. They share the mulled wine – with an unspoken rule that there needs to be a shared kiss with every sip. It tastes better that way – Sherlock muses – heightening the sensation of warmth and tipsiness, reminding Sherlock of their first ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>date.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Happy?” Mycroft asks him after the last of the mulled wine disappears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They won’t pour out another glass from the thermos, as Mycroft needs to be functional tomorrow to drive them back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better.” Sherlock nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come up here now.” Mycroft says tenderly, “Let me hold you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock obeys, letting his brother envelop him with his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Happy Christmas, Lock.” Mycroft kisses him again. He inquires minutes later. “Shall we go to sleep soon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… let’s play a game of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Candyland</span>
  </em>
  <span> before we go to bed, My</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I saw the board somewhere here earlier.” Sherlock suggests, stumbling somewhat awkwardly off of Mycroft’s lap and out of his arms which seem reluctant to let him go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I did tell Mummy afterwards. About your condition. After Aunt Mildred left.” Mycroft confesses quietly on the upper-story landing. “I hope you don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you say?” Sherlock asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not mad, but he wishes Mycroft had mentioned it to him beforehand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nightmares, jumpiness around people that you don’t see regularly – things like that. I told her that I’ve been looking after you. That you sleep better when I am near you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Sherlock sees what Mycroft had done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he’s right, they can sleep together in the same bed and neither of their parents would suspect a thing. Like they had done as children. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, oh.” Mycroft gives him a small smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did tell her John and I aren’t together, right?” Sherlock asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft chuckles quietly. “If she can’t figure that out from the available evidence, brother dear – then she is seeing what she wants to see. Best let her do that then. Go shower, and we can do as we did as children.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock turns to snog his brother after ensuring that there doesn’t seem to be noises coming from behind the door of their parents’ bedroom. It feels so deliciously illicit, doing so only a few metres away from their parents. He wraps his arms around Mycroft’s broad shirt-clad shoulders, bringing him closer – eliciting a gasp from Mycroft when their groins accidentally rub against the other. It’s a queer but tiltilating sensation, having Mycroft’s pelvis grind against his own. His cock twitches and fills with interest for the first time under such circumstances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, he finds himself jerked back in that cold, damp and dim cell, Petrović’s gnarled little hand reaching for a place that no one else has touched except for him. With his cruel little smile, his brown eyes twinkling with glee. Please. Oh. God. No. Nonono. Not here. Revulsion twists in the pit of his stomach, just as the digits are about to wrap around his – </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock. Lock. Lock. Sherlock.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The familiar voice brings him out of it. He is breathing fast – hyperventilating. Trembling all over – focusing desperately on his brother’s whispers, he is unable to make sense of the words, but uses them as a guide. To bring him back to reality. As his breaths slow, he wants to cry. Is this how it’s always going to be? For the first time, he wants it. He craves physical intimacy with his brother that went beyond kissing. Only for the desire to be harshly snuffed out by </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can almost feel those wrinkly old digits pull at his penis, just before those fingers go on to do other unmentionable and horrific things. The visceral sensation of disgust amplifies within him, he could almost feel the bitter bile at his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Christmas. The antique grandfather clock has struck midnight not too long ago, and Sherlock is tearing up, sobbing somewhat bitterly in his brother’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>(lover’s)</span>
  </em>
  <span> arms. Mycroft rocks him to and fro, continuing his soothing whispering till what it seems like the wee hours of the morning.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mycroft doesn’t say a word when Sherlock slips into his old childhood bed. His brother had spent a much longer than usual time in the loo, no doubt trying to wash those vile memories away. An entire thirty minutes extra. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He regrets bringing Sherlock here. It’s obvious that the day has taken an awful toll on his Lock. His brother still tries to stoically hide the depths of his suffering – trying to make things appear </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal and fine,</span>
  </em>
  <span> even though Mycroft knows that things will never be as they were. He should have had second thoughts when his brother didn’t even protest coming here as he normally would have done. It’s obvious to him now that Sherlock wants to please him at the cost of his own wellbeing. Perhaps… to make up for perceived defects. A thought Mycroft would have thought absurd and never-in-a-thousand-years before the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fall,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but alas, here they are. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother faces away from him, clad in silk pyjamas he never would have worn before the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fall. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The old preference for sleepwear had been none at all, but now Lock takes great pains to make sure no one sees his naked form. Not even him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though Sherlock is right beside him, there is a chasm that seems to separate them. Mycroft only wishes that he knew the solution as to how to cross it. He hates this, that there is nothing he can do to make things better. As a brother. A lover. His Lock is curled up in a ball – in an almost fetal position and Mycroft realizes a few minutes later that he is actually still crying. Silently. This is not how Mycroft had envisioned the night to have gone in their childhood bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he is about to speak, he hears Sherlock say resignedly between bouts of tears. “I should just go, Mycroft. I am keeping you up. Neither of us are going to sleep this way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As his brother gets out of bed, Mycroft determinedly grabs him by the thigh and pulls him down firmly. “No, Lock – don’t. Stay. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please let go, My – you are hurting me.” Sherlock says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft lets go as if burned, and Sherlock stops leaving. They look at each other. Sherlock’s eyes have never looked so vulnerable. Not even during that night when he had shared the horrors of Serbia. Mycroft recalls the moment of the flashback, just after Sherlock had ground their bodies together, feeling that sensual glide of his brother’s prick against his own. Sherlock had been some degree of erect – he remembers. The first time he had ever noticed. It had felt – good. A mere taste of how good coitus could be between them. And then the guilt crashes in, he’s here thinking about the lost sex potential, while Sherlock is still reeling from a flashback… relating to rape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do want it.” Sherlock observes, his voice fragile. “I… I wanted it too. At that instant. And then I was in Serbia again, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was reaching down to grab my cock… It was so humiliating. I was hard when he –'' Sherlock whimpers – making a broken noise that Mycroft has no words to describe adequately with his sophisticated vocabulary. All he can feel is his own heart shattering within him. All he can hope for is that he will never have to hear it again. Sherlock continues rather listlessly. “He fingered and fucked me. And –” He hesitates once more. “I… I was aroused. I never hated myself more after I finished. It would have been better if he just went in dry and made it hurt as much as possible. He just laughed and laughed…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock. You know these things are a matter of stimulation. Your body is programmed to enjoy these sensations. It doesn’t mean you wanted it.” Mycroft then growls angrily. “What he did to you was unforgivable. Using your own body to betray you.” Realizing that he is getting rather loud, he gently takes his brother’s hand, and says quietly. “I am so sorry, Lock. You never deserved this. You deserved so much better. Talking about it theoretically makes it sound easy, but it’s not. I understand if you never ever want to think about sex again, brother mine –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I do want it.” Sherlock says helplessly. “I just wish I can delete those memories, and make new ones with you. I want you to touch me. Kiss me. Make love to me. I thought about it the whole time while I was in the shower, as I was trying to scrub myself clean. It’s not fair. I know this sounds stupid, but I wanted you to be my first time. And, the last time.” Realizing the depth of what he had just said, Sherlock quickly clamps his hand over his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. How endearing his Sherlock looks. Mycroft just wants to take him away somewhere safe where no one would ever hurt him again and cuddle with him. Before his brother could think about fleeing again, Mycroft quickly says. “Don’t go, Lock. Your sentiments don’t alarm me. I –” He swallows, still in disbelief that he is actually going to say these words to someone in a romantic fashion. “I love you, Sherlock. I really do. And, not just in the fraternal sense. In every way that matters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother looks incredulously at him, before whispering. “You mean it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do. Lock. I just wish – that I could take away your suffering, your pain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock crawls over to him. He asks, his voice ever so sweet. “Hold me, My. Please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft spoons him in the dark, holding him ever so tight but so carefully – his precious bundle of Lock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s fitting though, Mycroft reflects – that such a momentous understanding between them had happened here in their childhood bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock, can I speak to you for a second? Before you two leave.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy catches up with him, just as he had exited the loo. She doesn’t touch him, like she usually would have done. It’s hard to read her, even though there is an atypical gravity to her demeanour. Already, she is wearing the antique emerald brooch that Mycroft had picked out and given her as a Christmas gift on behalf of the both of them. Big brother had always done that, but now there is a significance to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>we.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is aware that he must look like a horror. Neither Mycroft or he had slept much the night before, but he’s the one who had spent the entire night in tears. Wordlessly, he follows her into the unknown, as she pushes open the door to the empty study. They sit at two chairs next to the formidable old antique desk. He suddenly feels like an errant child again, caught once again for pinching the pastries cooling on the windowsill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Sherlock can see the sadness in her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just… wanted to apologize, dear.” She takes a breath, looking very much her age. “I didn’t know. Your brother and I had a chat last night. If I had known…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is exactly what Sherlock hadn’t wanted. For people to treat him differently. Especially his mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She starts again; this time on a tangent. “I remember when you were a child, Lock. You loved the gardens, the woods – the outdoors. You would catch frogs, chase dragonflies – one time you found a little bird with its wing broken and you took him home and nursed it back to health. You found grand-Mummy’s book, and became fascinated by the paintings. I remember when you were twelve, and you spent an entire summer amongst the flowers, drawing and painting. I digress – you were always the sensitive child. The emotional. And then when you went away to school, you changed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock can imagine what she’s thinking. The drugs. The humdrum. The lack of intellectual stimulation. Even the bullying. He had never fit into the world of goldfish, nor could he have faked it like Mycroft had. The loneliness. The bitter argument with his brother toward the tail-end of his adolescence. The cutting diet jokes and everything else had started from there. He would have denied that loneliness had been a problem then. He had felt betrayed when Mycroft had fought him over the sketchbook after grand-Mummy’s passing. It had been his by right, as he had drawn in its last few blank pages. Not to mention, a painting by Mummy in the middle – of a little hand reaching for a branch of wisteria, his own toddler hand. He had thought it had been Mycroft overstepping his boundaries as the elder child and taking what should have belonged to him. It had served as the nidus for over a decade’s worth of resentments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry about Aunt Mildred.” She has the good grace to look sheepish. “I should have put my foot down years ago. But she’s your Father’s sister, and he’s always been you know…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all know. Father is a bit of a pushover. Nor did he like conflict. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Sherlock is a stranger to homophobic slurs. They’ve been thrown at him throughout his life. Even when John and he had been a case-solving duo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told her off, and then I told your Father off at the dining table after you disappeared from the dining table. She stormed out. Threatened to never darken our humble abode again.” She sighs again, brushing a few strands of whitening hair from her eyes. “It’s fine you know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fine? Fine to be dating his brother? Hm… or is she still thinking of John? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or at least, I had wanted it to be fine. Three years without you at our Christmas table. I… wanted it dearly to be like old times. Forgive an old mother for her desire of nostalgia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn… this is an extensive conversation. Well… granted he hasn’t spoken a word. Sherlock doesn’t think he’s heard Mummy speak so much in one sitting to him alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I see now, that things aren’t fine. I don’t know what happened to you when you went away, but I can see that much of it was unpleasant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock contains his desire to snort. A great many things happened on his </span>
  <em>
    <span>lark around the world, </span>
  </em>
  <span>many of it of the unpleasant variety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am happy that your brother and you buried the hatchet though – dear. He showed me, you know. The lotus you finished. It’s beautiful. Grand-Mummy would have loved it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy reaches over cautiously, and Sherlock lets her put her hand on his forearm. He takes a deep shuddering breath, but it seems that this is appropriate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can handle this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regretfully, she sighs. “I better go make brunch for all of you. My dear boys! But, Sherlock – do listen to your brother. It’s obvious that he thinks the world of you. And, he works so hard. Too hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up to meet her gaze. It really does feel as if he had been transported back. There’s a mix of fondness, worry and concern in there; Sherlock could almost imagine the scene of his brother pulling out his phone to show her the painting – and he can almost hear the happy pride in Mycroft’s voice. As a child, he had followed Mycroft around like a second shadow, but when he hadn’t – he had been out in the gardens, playing near where Mummy had been tending to her much-loved flowers. He could almost smell the flowery fragrances and the earth emanating from her, bringing with it the essence of childhood happiness and tranquility. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She, unlike their Father, had always made a valiant attempt to understand him as a child, although their relationship had grown incredibly strained to the point of non-existence when he had been a much-troubled teen. And then he realizes something. Oh god. She knows. They hadn’t been subtle at all last night, especially once Sherlock had his flashback. Did she walk out at some point while Mycroft had been comforting him on the landing or heard something from Mycroft’s bedroom? But then again, out of their two parents, she is the likely carrier for their powers of deduction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a sparkle in her eyes when Sherlock utters what words he could manage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will, Mummy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy just smiles at him, before patting his arm fondly again. She stands up, and walks out of the room, leaving Sherlock bewildered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t the way back to London…” Sherlock remarks suddenly in the rental car as he stares at all the signage that flies by alongside the motorway in the light rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can almost hear Mycroft’s grin. “Lock, I am kidnapping you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You do enjoy your Machiavellian abuses of power, big brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only for the greater good, gorgeous creature.” Mycroft says, ever so fondly. “Besides, I don’t hear you complaining about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Sherlock certainly is not complaining about it. More time to spend alone with his lover. His mind is still swirling with the events of the morning. Of waking up in Mycroft’s arms, his brother’s face partially buried against his curls. Of the gift-exchange, where Mummy had given him a set of old but usable oil-paints, no doubt to encourage his artistic ventures. It’s obvious that she had intended to give him something else, like some nice pairs of socks – like she had done in the past, but had changed her mind when Mycroft had shown her the lotus. Of their conversation. And brunch featuring last night’s leftover Christmas pudding, a smoked salmon and bagel board with all the trimmings and a heavenly porridge topped with spiced apples. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been able to eat at the table without too many problems, grounded by Mycroft’s sock-clad foot rubbing against his leg. Mummy had smiled at him when he had finished his fair share, and packed them a hearty lunch for the road – sandwiches with leftover turkey trimmings, hot spiced apple juice in a thermos and an assortment of Christmas biscuits. After Father had left the dining room to go work on one of his numerous hobbies, Mycroft had slung his arm around Sherlock’s back, and held him – like he had done yesterday, whispering to him that he did a good job, and that he loved him while their Mummy had scurried about, busy with the cleaning up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mummy’s awesome, isn’t she?” Sherlock interrupts the quiet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is. I still don’t know what gave it away though.” Mycroft muses, turning on the windshield wipers as the rain seems to increase in intensity. “Perhaps, your gift of the sketchbook to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An implication that we can only love or hate each other?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock, I never hated you. Been annoyed, yes. Exasperated –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All lovely feelings, yes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft chuckles amusedly. “I still love you, Lock.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh good, you are still insane.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Happily so.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it you aren’t going to tell me where we are going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the point of a kidnapping if I have to tell you where we are going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very funny, I only brought two days worth of clothes…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anthea already had some of our things shipped out this morning. Should be there by the evening.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, the perks of dating someone with money and power.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I think it’s rather Anthea is happy that I have a lovelife and seems to be determined to do anything to keep it going.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh horrors, what gave you away?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I may have ‘giggled’ at the office. It was the day I left just before one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock grins. He is quite enamoured with the visual of the British Government cracking up in his office over him. Anthea had likely suggested the purchase of flowers. She seemed the type.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is enjoyable – having this light-hearted banter with his brother with none of the bite of the past. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still has the card from that lovely bouquet of flowers. In fact, he had acquired a small collection of such sentimental tokens and he keeps them hidden in what was once his favourite place to hide his illicit substances. Lestrade had missed this spot the last few times he had attempted a ‘drugs bust’ in his flat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure it was an alarming sound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure it was. She came into my office to check up on me as soon as she had a valid pretext to do so. The look on her face when I told her I was leaving the office for the day was certainly quite something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then she knows that your paramour is me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She knows that I’ve been looking after you, Lock. There really is no one else in my life.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is lying prone on a soft cotton towel on a large king-sized bed. There is a spectacular view of the North Sea in front of him, framed by velvety curtains. Certainly not a bad place to be held for a ransom, especially compared to those warehouses that Mycroft usually likes to bring his victims to. He feels the mattress dip beneath him, and his brother is straddling his trouser-clad thighs and his hands go to Sherlock’s shirt-covered scapulae. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay?” Mycroft inquires. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I am okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me know if –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will, My. Please, proceed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you wish, your Majesty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Sherlock could think of a suitable retort although he knows that the Queen? would never hear her title delivered from Mycroft in such a fond caressing manner. An affectionate kiss is pressed against his nape and he sighs when his brother’s fingers gently brush against his badly scarred back. Most of the wounds had healed and closed by now – even the ones that John had inadvertently reopened. He tries not to look at the damage in the loo (the only place these days where he is ever naked), but he is reminded of his injuries when he moves – the skin being tighter than it had been before. It’s not pretty. He wonders if he would ever be brave enough to undress in front of Mycroft, even though he knows Mycroft has seen them. Hell, he had even been there when they had given his last whipping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft calls him beautiful, but is he just being kind? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But then again he found you beautiful, did he not?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock grits his teeth, trying not to react to this intrusive thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh… relax, dear one. I’ve got you.” Mycroft reorients him as soon as he has noticed the slippage. “Shall I apply a little more force?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little sigh of pleasure escapes from Sherlock when the touches become deeper strokes, as his brother gets deeper into the muscles by using a mixture of his fingers, thumb and the heel of his palms, trying to undo what is sure to be plenty of knots. He winces a little when his brother comes across a few tender spots, and he tries to relax – which is presumably the whole point of this exercise. Like most things Mycroft does, he’s objectively good at it – taking the time to work through all of Sherlock’s tense muscles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eventually drifts – floating in pleasurable sensation – his eyes had fluttered shut. He tenses when Mycroft touches his glutes. Breathing slowly, he tries to go back to that previous state – but it’s not so easy. His brother moves on quickly to his thighs and legs before ending with his bare feet. A little hiccup of laughter escapes when Mycroft’s fingernails brush against the sole of one of his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… still ticklish, brother mine.” Mycroft observes the obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please – don’t –” Sherlock helplessly laughs when Mycroft tickles his other foot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns over while pulling his feet away from those terrible tickling digits, wanting to look at his brother, who is dressed in only a shirt with its top buttons undone and its sleeves rolled up and a pair of his tightly-tailored trousers. Mycroft lies down next to him, and Sherlock asks conversationally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you do this for all your captives?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only the ones I like, Lock.” Mycroft turns a little more and lets their lips touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… had a lot of practice, then?” Sherlock teases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really. The most I’ve ever done was to give Anthea a shoulder rub when she needed it. But, Lock – my lovely Lock –” Mycroft eyes are looking into his now, his warm breath caressing his face. “You are the only captive I’ve ever wanted to keep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Mycroft presses another kiss on his lips. “I am very much afraid, Lock – that you are stuck with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this why you brought me so far up north? To Northumberland? So that I can’t run when you confess you are a vampire or something? Mycroft!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock yelps when big brother nips at his neck, letting his incisors graze at his sensitive flesh – directly over his carotid sheath. It’s delightful – seeing big brother so casual and playful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… You are going to leave bruises…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful idea.” His brother’s irises seem to darken – and Sherlock can suddenly see all the affection and </span>
  <em>
    <span>possessiveness</span>
  </em>
  <span> that Mycroft has for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Its magnitude almost takes his breath away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless…” Mycroft pulls away from his abused neck. “You don’t want it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock thinks back to all those nasty criss-crossed scars adorning his back. Permanent. Made not with his consent. Of course, he has track marks and other accidental scars here and there – but those aren’t the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hickey. He’s never had one. Love bites. An absurdly and sentimentally inane concept. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Mycroft. Do it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pigment in Mycroft’s irises seems to intensify with this demand. God. Sherlock loves this – turning his well put-together brother into something just a little bit more primitive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft starts with kisses, little pecks that grow just a little longer, a little more intense – playfully nibbling at Sherlock’s lips. There is a potency to this act that reminds Sherlock of their very first date, and the little moans and mewls that escape him seem to spur Mycroft onward. His brother’s large hands come to rest at the sides of his head, his fingers lightly stroking his scalp and curls. He leans into his brother’s touch, while those roaming lips move on to his cheeks and jawline – peppering his skin with increasingly wet open-mouth kisses, sucking their way down to devour his neck. Sherlock’s own arms, not wanting to be idle, reach upward to encircle Mycroft’s shoulders, allowing him to gently caress his brother’s back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, Mycroft.” Sherlock gasps when Mycroft scrapes his teeth against a particular sensitive part of his neck. “More!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So demanding.” Mycroft stops to remark, only to salaciously moan when Sherlock’s legs instinctively hook around his thighs, bringing him down – causing their groins to slot together once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. The slow glide of Mycroft’s sizable cock against his own is sublime, combined with the pain/pleasure of the marks that Mycroft is diligently sucking and grazing into his flesh. Yes. He wants this. Sherlock seeks more friction, rubbing his prick incessantly against Mycroft’s groin. He can feel his arousal build – the coil of tension growing tauter and tauter – and his senses are completely immersed by big brother: the scent of his distinctive cologne and the hint of Mummy’s spiced apple juice permeating his nostrils – his body lying on top of Sherlock’s, a comfortable weight anchoring him to this plane of existence. His brother’s lips have given up their venture of marking up Sherlock’s neck, opting to return to share the most sensual </span>
  <em>
    <span>(filthy)</span>
  </em>
  <span> of open-mouthed kisses. And just before Sherlock reaches the pinnacle – his own eyes meet with his brother’s and he sees limitless potential; hints of the beautiful universe they can construct for themselves with their sentiment – their love. It is quite easily the most glorious sight that he’s ever seen. He cries out “Mycroft!” seconds before Mycroft gasps “I love you” at their respective points of no return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boneless, sated, his pants flooded with delightfully warm and sticky ejaculate – with his arms still firmly hugging Mycroft, Sherlock feels a sense of triumphant euphoria. He feels Mycroft’s lips tenderly brushing against his cheek, and he realizes that he’s crying. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> is his first time having sex ever. Coming with someone he cares so much about. Fuck Serbia. Fuck Petrović. He’s dead – killed by Mycroft’s men, and Sherlock is still alive to enjoy life with his most favourite person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too.” Sherlock whispers hoarsely, letting his own fingers comb through Mycroft’s thinning hair. “God, I love you.” He sobs louder, and Mycroft nuzzles his face against his, letting their noses caress each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Lock. My darling.” Mycroft murmurs other words of endearment. And then after a moment, he says with a reverence. “Look outside, mi amor.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Swirls of turquoise-green and a hint of red bedazzle the darkened skies. Aurora Borealis. Mycroft has seen these sorts of lights before, when he had traveled globally for his work – but never so brilliantly. His brother – still rather emotional from their shared orgasms – struggles to flip over. He eventually does so, and Mycroft immediately places a possessive arm around his shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My, we should go outside. Well, at least out to our veranda.” Sherlock’s voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “It’s… beautiful.” He adds in a dazed sort of way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never really know how long these lights last, brother. It could be done within the next –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, we can go out as we are. Sticky pants and all. Come on, My!” </span>
</p><p><span>Sherlock wiggles out of bed, looking so deliciously rumpled. Absolutely debauched. His hair curling wildly in every sort of direction, his neck a mess of marks that are certain to blossom into lovely colours</span><em><span> (perhaps he may have gone a tad overboard) </span></em><span>and</span> <span>his shirt and trousers wrinkled from rutting against him. There is a shine of boyish excitement in his eyes that Mycroft hasn’t seen in so long. Not since childhood, perhaps. Appropriate for Christmas Day.</span></p><p>
  <span>His brother grabs his coat from the closet, while tossing Mycroft’s onto the nearby chair. He then bends down to put on his shoes, leaving Mycroft with a lovely view of his generous bum. Mycroft’s fingers still remember the plushness of that arse. God. He would like to worship it someday, if little brother is ever comfortable with such activities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly he gets out of bed and follows suit. It feels absurd, to be getting dressed to go out while his groin is still marinated in his own semen and sperm after cumming into his pants like a pubertal schoolboy. But, if this is the way Lock wants to have sex – then Mycroft really doesn’t give a damn. He’s beyond proud that his brother had been daring enough to go for it, after last night’s flashback. If a little bit of dry-humping could feel so amazing, then he could only imagine what other sexual experimentation could yield. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s done dressing, Sherlock reaches for his arm. They push open the glass doors and step out into the private veranda facing seaward. Little brother shivers when a gelid sea wind blows past, sending his curls into a further state of disarray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft envelops his arms around his brother’s torso just as Sherlock props his elbows against the wood of the railing. Those soft fragrant curls tickle against his face. Overhead, the esthetic dance of protons and electrons in the heavens continues; the collisions of Earth-bound particles and their alien counterparts from the sun releasing vibrant photons to bathe the thermosphere in its otherworldly glow. Similar in principle to the science behind neon-lights. Despite knowledge of these cold hard facts, being still under the influence of his own heady neurochemistry –  he cannot help to feel a sense of deep awe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It feels as if we made them.” Sherlock murmurs, as the red swirl slowly intensifies – taking on a purplish colour and intermingles with the bluish-green. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean…” Mycroft whispers silkily in his ear. “We were so incandescent, brother </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine,</span>
  </em>
  <span> that we set the skies on fire? Inspired electrons out of their orbits to seek the heavens, only for them to come crashing down in such a luminous manner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock snorts at the corniness. But he appreciates the effort, all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They spend who knows how long watching the languid passage of the lights. The aurora borealis begins to dissipate, allowing the stars and moon to take their place once again centre-stage in the night sky. At some point, his brother turns toward him. His forehead rests on Mycroft’s shoulder, and he says simply. Genuinely. “Thank you, Mycroft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?” He inquires reflexively, but he takes these words to heart – for he does not know when was the last time his brother thanked him for anything without a trace of sarcasm. Or for ulterior motives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything.” Sherlock murmurs, after having spent what felt like a minute to ponder. “I-I am happy. Even before… I don’t think I ever was. Not like this. It scares me. You know.” A forlorn tone creeps in as Sherlock presses his palm likely over Mycroft’s heart. “I just think – that this cannot last. That either I will do something to fuck it up, or you will decide that this isn’t worth it anymore. It feels like a dream. Yet, never did I ever dream that I could have this. Or that I even wanted, no – needed this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dearest.” Mycroft tightens his hold on him, letting his chin touch his brother’s curls. “I won’t leave you, I promise. You will always be worth it –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if one day – one of our enemies finds out? About us? Mummy knows. Anthea knows. Mrs. Hudson knows. Someone else could find out just as easily. You have more to lose, My.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have false papers locked away somewhere safe and accessible. I had them made the day after our first kiss. But the odds are, we don’t need them.” He then adds seriously. “You forget, brother – that I am happy too. It’s not just you who has changed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looks up at him, a little teasing smile on his face. “You’ve turned into such a romantic sod, big brother. Playful and possessive. You didn’t like it when the receptionist let his eyes linger on my bottom earlier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like people staring at what is mine, little brother.” Mycroft almost growls, and Sherlock actually giggles. “And also, because I am your big brother – and no one should be staring at my little brother in an untoward fashion.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Except you.” Sherlock is still laughing, his eyes sparkling with genuine mirth – the most wondrous thing that Mycroft has seen in a long time. So many beautiful sights to appreciate this Christmas. But then, Sherlock grows grave once more. “Just one more thing – brother. I-I just don’t want to be an obligation to –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock. I told you this before. And I will keep telling you this. You. Are. Not. An. Obligation. Never were. I’ve always cared about you –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did say caring wasn’t an advantage –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want your heart to get broken, Lock – goldfish are fickle crea –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We aren’t goldfish.” Sherlock interrupts hastily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, we aren’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still think this is a dream.” Sherlock states. “And I don’t want to wake up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither do I. But brother – let yourself be happy when you can. I can’t promise that we will be happy all of the time, but I will always be here for you. Please. Remember that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft stoops down a little to brush his now-chapped lips against his brother’s cold ones. It is slow, but sweet – of him trying to convey his words into feeling. His brother clings tightly onto him, before suggesting. “Let’s go inside before we freeze to death – and wash off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You want to use the hot tub.” Mycroft states.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock freezes. He had been eyeing the tub outside their cozy cottage. Thinking about how nice it would be to be in one with his brother. But, he isn’t ready for that. To be naked in front of his brother. He wouldn’t mind Mycroft being naked though… Mm… Pale skin, all that beautiful dark fur, that ripple of lean muscle encased within a thin layer of soft flesh…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No use denying it. He had been caught fair and square. “Yeah. But –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand combs through his curls. “I brought a wetsuit for you. Did you not see it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Sherlock did remember seeing it. A wave of affection so strong ripples through his chest that he could feel a tear escaping from his lacrimal duct. His brother catches it with a finger, and bends down to kiss him on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want me in the hot tub?” Mycroft asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Indeed, absolutely essential.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looks up at his brother, dressed so casually in an open-collared shirt and a pair of jeans. He hadn’t even known Mycroft owned such garments. But it makes sense, they’ve spent the last two-three days at Cairngorms National Park – snowshoeing, hiking, snowboarding, quad-biking, watching Mycroft get spit at by a feisty llama while trying to feed her (otherwise, they had been docile), trying to convince Mycroft to go bungee jumping with him </span>
  <em>
    <span>(“As much as I love you, Sherlock, there are limits!") </span>
  </em>
  <span>– not exactly the kind of activities that require his brother’s formal attire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Swimming trunks? Or should I wear clothes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trunks are fine.” Sherlock purrs when his brother puts a little bit more pressure on his scalp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes – now!” Sherlock jumps up and dashes up the stairs to their bedroom, hearing his brother chuckle fondly behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds the charcoal wetsuit with blue accents and slips into the loo to change, deliberately facing away from the mirror, as he avoids seeing the ruins of his back whenever possible. It fits him perfectly, snug – but not tight enough to cut off circulation. It’s one of these thoughtful gestures that his brother makes, that always catches Sherlock off guard. The little details. He always seems to know what Sherlock needs or wants, before he himself becomes aware of it. In fact, his brother had always tried to do so, even before they had gotten together like this. Handing him cases during idle, hopeless times for instance. Always claiming that he hated legwork as an excuse, but he had plenty of agents to do that for him, if needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He had been such an idiot. But, that’s not new, he sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he goes back downstairs, his brother is already in the hot tub outside, so Sherlock grabs the cottage-provided slippers and slips out, with a white thermal blanket draped around his shoulders. It’s brisk out, with light fluffy snow drifting slowly onto the ground. In the distance, there are mountains with their frosted tops obscured by clouds, and the tall venerable pine trees become denser the further away from the cottage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s idyllic here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tranquill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s strange, really, how Sherlock had no use for peace and quiet before the Fall. He had loved London – with her intriguing criminal element, the hustle and bustle of her denizens each living in a world of their own – and now he can barely stand to be around people. Of course, he hates socializing with the goldfish – but he had liked to be amongst them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the bombing case, he hadn’t even reached out to any of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>Homeless Network </span>
  </em>
  <span>contacts either. He usually likes to, to get the feel of the streets – to take a pulse of London, to hear the whispers, to see the smoke of big things happening in the shadows. It was through this fashion where he had first learned of Moriarty – even before learning his name back in what John had named </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘A Study in Pink’.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>How time has gone by! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He climbs up the side of the hot tub, letting his toes dip into the hot, steaming bubbly waters. Mycroft is already lounging at the far side, his back slightly extended – his arms resting at the edge of the tub. His eyes are closed. Rivulets of glistening water run down the contours of his neck, disappearing into his furry chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. He’s handsome. Sherlock swallows as he slips in further, feeling fond and warm feelings bubble in his chest. Big brother opens his eyes when Sherlock is finally fully in the tub and he grins when Sherlock does his best impression of a flopping fish to reach him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could never do things quietly, brother mine.” Mycroft’s arm immediately curls around Sherlock’s shoulders, bringing him closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What fun is that?” Sherlock shrugs, letting his brother kiss him – a chlorine-flavoured kiss. He lets Mycroft cuddle up with him while lamenting the fact that his wetsuit gets in the way of feeling how Mycroft’s skin would feel against his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother’s forehead brushes against his. Quietly he says. “You know I wouldn’t mind. Your scars.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Sherlock does know. “I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. Not many nice things have happened to you naked.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That.” Sherlock readily agrees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not just the scars. He’s uncomfortable showing Mycroft his private parts too. Just because some loser had touched him inappropriately. Did more than touch him… He grits his teeth, trying to block this non-helpful train of thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard. He has great empathy now with all of his fellow rape </span>
  <em>
    <span>(what a nasty word, yet doesn’t seem to quite capture the breadth of the suffering involved) </span>
  </em>
  <span>victims. Reducing his body to the mere idea of transport had been another idiotic thought of his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he had the data. How many victims of rape had he talked to over the years? Of beatings? Torture? The majority of them had seemed fundamentally broken to some degree – but he had thought himself above it all, hadn’t he? The being who could separate the mental from the physical. Perhaps he had even been guilty of thinking that there was a defect in willpower? The inability to ‘get over it’. But he knows that’s not true either now. He’s one of those fundamentally broken people that is struggling to put themselves back together again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries so hard. A tear slides down his cheek. God. It’s been more than two months since everything has happened, and yet – he still cries so much. The dreams had improved. He can eat like a normal human being now, although he still prefers being fed by Mycroft. He can handle </span>
  <em>
    <span>(tolerate)</span>
  </em>
  <span> rooms full of strangers, provided that Mycroft does all the talking. He can make out with his brother and have it end in a mutually satisfying frottage without being distracted by nasty flashbacks. Progress. But it seems like there is still so far to go. There are days that he wants to throw in the towel and just give up, but the thought of Mycroft keeps him going. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Lock.” Mycroft pecks his cheek. “My darling. I don’t mean to pressure you. Take all the time you need, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that.” Sherlock says quietly. “It’s hard – when there is a discongruence between what I am capable of, and what I want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft simply holds him, while Sherlock rests his head on his shoulder. He trusts his brother implicitly now. This ‘kidnapping’ had yielded a closeness between them that Sherlock is certain would never fray. Exploring ruined castles by foot while making up stories about the people who had lived there that may have been grounded in truth in the beginning, but became wilder and even more ludicrous with each name they slandered. Walking through gardens. Indulging in coffee and pastries in quaint little cafés. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had driven to Edinburgh, where Sherlock had begrudgingly accompanied his brother to the National Gallery of Scotland. He liked doing art, but seldom enjoyed walking through displays. Whenever things had gotten too overwhelming, Mycroft would take him to a quiet space and give him all the time he had needed to calm down once more. Sherlock wouldn’t even need to say a word. Big brother always knew when it was time to take a break. Then there had been the Haunted tour that they had gone on – to see creepy graveyards and cellars. So much blood and gore in that city’s history to appreciate. There had been the Camera Obscura – which turned out to be Sherlock’s favourite place. A place full of optical illusions. It wasn’t just because it was interesting, but Mycroft and he had spent many hours trying to take funny photos of themselves – with some help from the other tourists. How refreshing it is to laugh </span>
  <em>
    <span>with </span>
  </em>
  <span>each other, rather than to laugh at each other. They had rang in the New Year’s in a fancy bedroom above a Michelin starred restaurant, indulging in sumptuous food and drink, while they had spent their other days in a fancy suite decorated in the gothic style.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then again, the entire trip had been fun. Just because he was with Mycroft. A fun way for him to be out in the world again, to push his boundaries. To regain his interest in the world outside. No one had recognized him either. Neither of them had dressed in their regular regalia, and Sherlock finds that he prefers the anonymity. He had never wanted fame or the recognition. That’s something that John had aspired to have through his blogging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here, they were just a happy gay couple, one amongst many. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our last night here.” Mycroft murmurs, and Sherlock just realizes that the sky is darkening quickly. “We will start heading back south to London tomorrow. I had thought about flying, but I don’t want to burden you with the crowds at the airport.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s practically a ten hour drive, brother.” Sherlock muses. “From here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will break it up into two days. I will survive.” Mycroft brushes a kiss against his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, some part of me doesn’t want to go back.” Sherlock admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just like having me at your beck and call, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.” Mycroft jests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely a perk.” Sherlock smiles. “I suppose you are cooking dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Personal driver, chef, masseuse, planner –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A jack of all trades – master of all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock lets his hand touch Mycroft’s bare chest – the first time he’s ever touched his brother in this unclothed state. He lets his fingers comb through his brother’s thick fur, enjoying how the water keeps them in the orientation he strokes them toward. His brother sighs, seeming to dedicate his energies to focusing on Sherlock’s caresses. His other hand joins in, and Sherlock focuses on mapping out both muscle boundaries and bones, enjoying this study on anatomy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inadvertently one of his fingers brushes against one of Mycroft’s nipples, buried under the forest of fur, and his brother actually jerks at the touch – trying to hold back a little moan. Curious. Sherlock abandons his anatomical studies and this time deliberately flicks at that sensitive bit of flesh, causing the bud to stiffen and this time his brother’s breath hitches audibly. Sherlock leans forward to kiss him, before Mycroft could say anything to dissuade him from this sort of experimentation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… you like this.” Sherlock tries the other nipple, before teasing them simultaneously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like you.” Mycroft says rather amusedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose that’s the more important variable.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock murmurs more to himself, before letting his hands slide down his brother’s torso. He hums as he devotes his attention to caressing every centimetre of his brother’s front and sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You like this too.” Sherlock observes, seeing his brother lolling his head with his eyes closed in pleasure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been stroking his brother’s belly, enjoying the softness of the flesh. It’s nowhere as defined as his own, but it is still respectably trim – justifying none of the diet and weight gain jokes and mockery that Sherlock had tossed Mycroft’s way in spades. He has an urge to apologize, but seeing how relaxed his brother looks, he doesn’t have the heart to bring up another hairy topic between them. In his tightly-tailored suits, his brother has the propensity to suck in his gut (which really isn’t necessary) and the fact he isn’t doing so now seems to be a proof of trust. He moves down his brother’s thighs – which are lovely and toned – hidden behind his designer prussian-blue swimming trunks adorned with golden sea turtles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s fingers are getting dangerously close to his genitalia. Mycroft sighs as his brother massages his inner thighs – but he doesn’t want this to stop. He feels as if he is floating on top of a cloud – the combination of the hot steamy water, his brother’s careful touch and especially the visual of his Sherlock doing this is making him melt against the wall of the tub, making him never want to leave even though his skin is getting increasingly wrinkled from soaking in the tub for too long. His brother’s hand settles on top of his groin, just above his erect cock, and he looks up – meeting Mycroft’s eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes? No?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if you want to, brother mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to.” Sherlock says firmly. He then adds, “I do wish I could see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft promptly pulls himself out of the tub, shivering slightly as the cold air blows about his skin. It’s getting too hot in there anyways. There is a determined glint in his brother’s eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft only hopes that Sherlock is doing this because he wants to, and not because this is what he thinks is something that Mycroft wants. He helps his brother pull down his sodden trunks, revealing his flushed stiffening cock and balls. Sherlock looks at it with some combination of awe and want, before reaching over to encircle the base of his prick with his hot-tub warmed hand which makes an amazing contrast with the cold air. He is aware that he is on the big side – he’s had other men look at his cock like Sherlock had – but there’s something awesome about his dearest looking at him like that. With that tinge of lust. He had worried that his brother would find him unattractive – but clearly this isn’t the case. He could be glad that Serbia hadn’t taken away his brother’s interest in dicks altogether. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, at least of this kind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock starts by stroking up and down his shaft, gradually adding his thumb when he reaches the head, letting the digit swirl lazily around his head. Mycroft slides his own hands back to support himself as he groans in pleasure. He is close – the foreplay in the tub had done its job, although he wishes Lock was up here with him, so they could kiss at least. And then he gasps, when something hot and wet licks at the head of his cock – Lock’s tongue. Its tip laps teasingly at his slit, and there is a teasing sparkle in the iridescence of his eyes. It’s such a lovely sight. His brother’s hand continues to pull at his shaft, while he continues to lick – pressing filthily sloppy kisses against the reddened head of his cock. Mycroft grunts, feeling himself reach the brink, and utters warningly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gonna cum.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother pulls away – his fingers still working at his glans, but not quickly enough – and Sherlock gets a faceful of sperm and cum. A facial. Mycroft, despite the post-orgasmic bliss, slides back down into the tub and immediately wraps his arms around his brother sensing that something is amiss. He rains kisses against his face – disregarding his own cum, and he whispers with concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You alright, Lock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Just need a moment.” His brother breathes slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should have warned you sooner.” Mycroft whispers, with some regret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I just wanted to… get over it.” Sherlock says, his voice slightly frustrated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brother.” Mycroft says tenderly, using his hands to wipe the ejaculate off his brother’s face. “You don’t have to push yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. But… I wanted to. For you.” He says even more quietly. “And me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… want to talk about it?” Mycroft asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little shake of the head. “Maybe later.” Sherlock then adds, his tongue darting out to lick at his cupid’s bow. “I enjoyed it until the end. For what it’s worth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, darling – I could tell.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A heavy feeling of sadness sits in his chest as Sherlock sloshes over to the other side of the tub to get out. It’s not hard to deduce that getting all that fluid on his face had reminded Sherlock of getting debased in Serbia. Mycroft had found it beyond hot. He sighs, feeling the familiar gnawing of guilt, even though he knows it isn’t his fault per se. He sits in the hot tub for several minutes more, watching the stars and the crescent shaped moon, interspaced by patches of cloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beautiful Scottish evening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After his shower, Sherlock, in a set of silky red pyjamas with white dots – so soft that each brush against his skin feels like a caress – curls up in the bed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Their bed</span>
  </em>
  <span> his brain corrects. He has his phone out, and is flipping through all the pictures they had taken of themselves over the course of this ‘kidnapping’ stored in a secure encrypted cloud that Mycroft had made for them weeks ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The most striking thing about all of them is that they are happy. There are candid shots, selfies and pictures of varying degrees of artistry depending on the skills of all the helpful passersby who took them. He hardly recognizes his brother, for one. Dressed so casually with his shirt untucked, his arm slung over Sherlock’s shoulders. Even though Mycroft is trying to look at the camera, his eyes are still directed towards him. Such a soft tender look that causes an ache to form beneath Sherlock’s sternum. Gone is that cold, nonchalant – unfeeling look that Sherlock recalls that had been part of Mycroft’s ‘Minor Government Official’ facade. Sherlock thinks he would cry if Mycroft ever looked at him like that again, in private. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he just feels sad – he had caught the look of guilt on Mycroft’s face just before he had slipped out of the hot tub. God. He can’t even offer his brother a hand job with a bit of tongue without making him feel guilty. It’s hardly Mycroft’s fault for Sherlock’s fucked up mental wiring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He buries his head in his hands. A hopelessness seems to loom in front of him. His impatient nature really works against him at times. He just wants to be normal again. He wants to be able to love his brother without causing him suffering. Is that too much to ask for? His brother really deserves better. He wipes at his cheek, realizing once again his tears are running rather freely from their ducts. Fuck. Serbia. He thinks, remembering that when the mix of semen and sperm had hit him on the face, it felt like he had been teleported to one of those few times where Petrović had pulled out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he had first done so, Sherlock had thought he had been spared the indignity of swallowing the man’s ghastly emissions, only to be met with a faceful of reality. It was… awful. One of the guards had laughed at him when they had marched him back to his cell, and they didn’t bother washing him off until the next day. Desecration. Humiliation. And it felt so wrong. So wrong to think of Mycroft like this. Associating him with these abominable acts. Mycroft should be associated with things like love, friendship – and everything else that is nice. And he knew his brother had found the act immensely arousing… which probably contributed to his guilt. He sighs – rubbing his eyes with the dorsum of his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand rests on his back. Mycroft’s. He doesn’t want to look up, knowing that his face is messed up by crying again. His brother had cooked. Sherlock can smell the delicious aromas wafting from him, despite his snot-clogged nose. He can feel the mattress shift as Mycroft leans forward to grab something – Sherlock’s phone. It had fallen from his hand at some point. He can hear his brother unlock the phone by connecting the dots. He knows Mycroft is looking at the photos that he had been flipping through. Oddly enough, he doesn’t even care about Mycroft’s breaches of his privacy ever since they’ve gotten together. His brother respects his boundaries and gives him space far better than when they had just been antagonistic brothers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft caresses his curls, letting his fingers drag a little against his scalp. “Let me see you, beautiful boy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmph. Look hideous.” Sherlock grumbles. “Teary-eyed and all snotty. You’d be blind to think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It makes you look human.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe things would have been better if I was actually a high-functioning sociopath.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would it really?” Mycroft asks softly with the barest hints of sadness and sympathy in his eyes. “We wouldn’t be here if you were.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. That’s true. How did he live without this? Mycroft’s gentle touch. His caring. Love. Now that he comes to think about it, if it weren’t for Serbia, they might have resumed their cat-and-dog relationship: taken up their posts as archenemies rather than brotherly inamoratos who had made love under the Northern Lights. Dreadful thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scratch it all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sherlock says. “No, you’re right. For some inexplicable reason, you adore me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are my Lock.” Mycroft croons, letting his fingers comb through his hair. “The heart that I reportedly don’t have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My… you are…” Sherlock looks up incredulously. “Worse than those saccharine Valentine’s Day goods –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It worked though. Made you look up.” Mycroft slides his hand down his cheek and jawline. “And what do you know about Valentine’s Day goods, anyways?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well… Molly’s tried to give me some over the years.” Sherlock frowns. “You know – things like colourful candy hearts that say appalling things like ‘Be Mine’, ‘Only You’, ‘Kiss Me’ and even ‘Love Bug’...” He shudders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft laughs. “Are you not my lovebug?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is appalled. “Anything but that – brother!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! How about this – sugar lips?” At the horror on Sherlock’s face – Mycroft continues remorselessly. “Honey bun, stud muffin, cuddle cakes –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft!” Sherlock flushes with mortification as he grabs a pillow and hurls it at his brother in self-defense. God. It seems wrong to have these kinds of… </span>
  <em>
    <span>endearments</span>
  </em>
  <span> coming out of his mouth. How could he come up with such utterly ridiculous things? In such a serious tone of voice!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm…” Mycroft pounces after batting the pillow away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock finds himself looking up at big brother who is currently straddling his thighs. Is that a Christmas jumper? He muses – looking at the black and white cashmere garment with two cartoony red-nosed reindeer staring at a sad-looking Christmas tree with garlands of yellow and red lights draped around its branches. His brother leans forward, whispering with a bit of silk. “I am rather fond of cuddle cakes…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Sherlock could complain, his brother is kissing him into oblivion. His own hands find themselves stroking Mycroft’s jumper – feeling the soft luxurious fabric in his fingers, while Mycroft controls the kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his brother finally ends it, Sherlock is dazed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother looks genuinely apologetic. “Is it… too soon? It wasn’t my intention to come up here and snog you –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Mycroft.” Sherlock shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits up so that he could cuddle up with his brother. God. Mycroft is so fucking sweet. Did Mycroft wear this designer jumper to cheer him up? Or is it part of the wardrobe that never ever gets seen by people, ever? Or both of these deductions are true. But then again, Sherlock has been privy to all sorts of casual clothes that Mycroft owns in the last few days. Even at Baker Street, Mycroft still dresses somewhat conservatively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just upset that I made you feel guilty…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft kisses his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even though it isn’t your fault that I am fucked up. And, that my brain saw fit to associate your cum hitting my face with what happened in Serbia. It’s nothing like that. He did it to humiliate me, you find it hot because –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Possessiveness.” Mycroft admits. “Marking you as mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Sherlock says, “It’s just that I never know what triggers anything… But I want to do all these things with you, My –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even if all you want to do at the end is kiss, Lock –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock simply buries his face against his brother’s shoulder, seeking comfort. Mycroft instantly rocks him in his arms, pressing feather-light kisses against his head. He wants to be possessed by Mycroft. Sherlock realizes. He wants his brother to claim every part of his body. To replace pain and humiliation with love. Reroute his synapses so that he associates tactile stimulation with affection and Mycroft. Erode the unwanted memories. But it would take time. And courage. Weeks. Months. Hopefully not years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the passage of several minutes, Mycroft suggests. “Should we go eat? I made a delightfully creamy butter squash soup, some bruschetta and some pan-fried fish.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nods, knowing that they should go do justice to his brother’s culinary delights, and the bottle of red that they had bought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, afterwards – like they do every night – they would go through the board games and cards that Anthea had packed them in a cozy location. In this cottage, it would be next to the electrical fireplace. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connect-Four. Carcassonne. Pandemic. Speed. Poker. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Mycroft’s ever reliable deck of well-beaten, but loved </span>
  <em>
    <span>Uno</span>
  </em>
  <span> cards. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Happy birthday, Lock.” Mycroft says quietly with a fond twinkle in his blue eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson grins delightedly at the sight and snaps a shot the moment when Mycroft turns to bestow a tender kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. There are two cakes on the table: Mrs. Hudson had insisted on baking a rich square carrot cake, while  Mycroft had insisted on buying one for his brother – a decadent </span>
  <em>
    <span>(ludicrously expensive)</span>
  </em>
  <span> chocolate truffle layered cake from one of London’s most premier bakeries. One cake had a ‘three’ shaped candle, and the other had a ‘four’ shaped candle. Each is lit with a merry little flame, flickering away in the darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a vase of fresh flowers </span>
  <em>
    <span>(stargazer lilies, blue irises and bright yellow sunflowers),</span>
  </em>
  <span>a handful of colourful helium-filled birthday balloons and a stack of presents on the table. Sherlock had looked appalled when Mycroft had brought up the balloons and the presents after dinner, but Mrs. Hudson could tell that Sherlock had secretly been very pleased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Turner might have her ‘married ones’, but she has her Holmesian lovers. She had observed the signs, the increased physical intimacy and care between the two of them. How comfortable Sherlock had seemed around his brother when he could barely tolerate close proximity to her </span>
  <em>
    <span>(which had saddened her immensely)</span>
  </em>
  <span> and even to that handsome grey-haired fox of a Detective Inspector – who had dropped by a handful of times since Sherlock’s return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For certain, she had known that there had been something brewing between the two of them when she had heard tipsy giggling at the front door and the sounds of what appeared to be a patient Mycroft trying to help a slightly inebriated Sherlock up the stairs. And her suspicions had been confirmed the next day when Mycroft had come back uncharacteristically early from work, bearing flowers and treats while looking sheepish that he had been caught out on doing something so sentimental. The flowers had become a constant – Mycroft always makes sure there is a bouquet of fresh flowers on Sherlock’s table – a cheery addition to the flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several days later, she had walked in on them snogging. They had completely ignored her presence, stuck in an Eden of their own creation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. Young love! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She might not be able to brag about her couple like Mrs. Turner, but she does know a thing or two about keeping secrets. The former wife of a drug lord definitely knows how to hold her tongue. And, there is something so horribly romantic about the concept of forbidden love, isn’t there? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, she watches as Mycroft helps Sherlock cut the cakes (his hand on top of his). She doesn’t think she’s ever seen her Sherlock look this happy, even during the days when John and he had shared the flat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What is all this, Mycroft?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock asks much later, after when Mrs. Hudson had left – taking a portion of the chocolate truffle cake with her – examining the contents of one rectangular box. He holds out a sleeveless silken vest – coloured an appealing shade of blue with subtly embroidered stars, moons and clouds. The night sky. Then there is a matching pair of drawstring bottoms – rather like pyjama bottoms. There is also a short tank top? Same material, but would leave the lower half of his midriff bare. A one-piece teddy? (Sherlock isn’t too well-versed in lingerie terminology) that would cover his groin and the majority of his back with most of the front left bare. A pair of underwear. One regular pair of boxers, and another – a thong? He’s never worn such a garment before in his life. Finally at the bottom is a microfiber dressing gown – of a similar shade of blue and pattern. Everything is bespoke and of impeccable quality, and Sherlock knows he would delight in how all this fabric would feel against his skin.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock – I know you’ve been trying to work up the courage of being undressed in front of me, so I thought this way, you could control what part of your body is left bare – and if we engage in physical intimacy – a sign of what you are comfortable with letting me touch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft…” Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows, watching Mycroft looking at him with such sentiment. Grabbing his brother’s wrist, he drapes his arm around his waist, and Mycroft obliges him by holding him close. Letting that moment of sentiment ripple through him, Sherlock murmurs both amusedly and with wonder, “You bought me lingerie. Bespoke lingerie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A common enough gift between significant others.” Mycroft remarks casually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm… it’s almost the colour of surgical drapes.” Sherlock smiles at his observation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Similar concept, but with less blood – I hope.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Boring…” Sherlock teases, and Mycroft leans forward to kiss him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to use your gifts?” Mycroft asks when they part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s getting late – don’t you have to go to work tomorrow?” Sherlock inquires, attempting to be thoughtful for once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft gives him another kiss in response. “I think I can indulge a birthday boy with a little tenderness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You spoil me so.” Sherlock mumbles, letting his face nuzzle against Mycroft’s shoulder. Aside from the sketchbook, Sherlock had bought his brother a lovely vicuna scarf which had cost him an arm and a leg, really – he does not have the same sort of financial resources that Mycroft possesses. “Feeling rather like a kept boy right now…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft snorts, but then he says seriously. “What use is money if I can’t use it to make my darling a little happier? You’ve brought me so much happiness, dear one – there’s no price you can put on that. Now – if you want a little late night indulgence…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock grabs the box and disappears off to the bedroom before Mycroft could finish his sentence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a hard decision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock sighs as he caresses the fine silks of the lingerie in the box. He wishes that he could just go naked, knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t love him any less for his physical imperfections… but still. He’s not ready for that. He keeps his original pair of pants on, and slides the drawstring bottoms over them. Grabbing the vest (it would cover his back, but leave his arms and part of his chest exposed) he puts it on, enjoying the glide of the smooth silk against his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a breath, he steps out of the bedroom, seeing Mycroft awaiting him on his mattress in the living room. The space is dimly lit – illuminated by strategically placed candles that Mycroft had placed around the room while Sherlock had gone to get changed. His brother is still in his trousers and waistcoat – the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, the tie loosened, but still looped around his collar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A final present to unwrap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flickering of the flames bathes Mycroft in a gorgeous interplay of mysterious shadows, and despite the weariness on his brother’s face, Sherlock has never found him so handsome. So beautiful. The flutters of nerves dissipate when Mycroft stands up, and whisks him into his sturdy reliable arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Happy New Year, Sherlock.” Lestrade hangs his sodden umbrella on the coat stand, before divesting himself of his coat and scarf. “It’s a wet one today.” He remarks conversationally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can see that.” Sherlock remarks absently, trying to ignore the pangs of longing that intermittently reverberates through his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s ridiculous how much he misses him. Misses Mycroft. Their first date in that swanky rooftop bar had taken place barely a month ago. Of course he had missed Mycroft in the days that followed when he had to go to work then, but now – it’s like someone had taken something absolutely essential away. As if all the oxygen in the air had been sucked out, and he’s gasping for breath. This is the first day that Mycroft had gone back to work – big brother had spent yesterday working from home (well Baker Street) and they had spent almost all of their time during the last two weeks together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Absurd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock finds himself following Lestrade into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t even paying attention to me at all, aren’t you – sunshine?” Lestrade looks at him with a modicum of concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t even heard a word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How is he going to deal with this? It’s unrealistic that Mycroft and he could spend all their time together. As close as they are now, Sherlock is still sure there’s a limit as to how much they could spend time together without driving each other crazy. Not to mention, big brother has an important job, and he has… well his work. Just work. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>Work</span>
  </em>
  <span> like it had been before the Fall. It’s just something distracting to pass the time until when Mycroft comes home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. This doesn’t sound healthy either – this overreliance on big brother. One-sided dependent relationships...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sherlock admits. He inhales somewhat noisily, before exhaling. To distract Lestrade before he can offer an unwanted probing question, he offers. “Tea?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade’s brows shoot up alarmingly. “Now I know that there is something wrong.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tea isn’t rocket science. I won’t poison it, I promise.” Sherlock shrugs as he boils water with the kettle and hunts down some of Mycroft’s fancy oolong tea bags from a cupboard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was your birthday.” Lestrade notices the colourful cluster of foil and mylar balloons tied down to a block of wood, wisely not poking further. “Yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Sherlock smiles somewhat wistfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can still feel it. Mycroft’s hands slowly sliding reverently down the silk of his vest and trousers. His knowledgeable fingers and lips mapping and caressing his skin, savouring each centimetre of the exposed flesh of his chest that had been left bare for Mycroft for the first time. An offering. He’s wearing a turtleneck today because there had been some ‘accidents’ involving his neck and to some degree his chest. Reaching up, he rubs at a spot where a delicate bloom of purple had formed over his sternocleidomastoid. Broken peripheral capillaries. An ecchymosis. A mark of Mycroft’s love and possessiveness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And god. His kisses. The last one – the end of a series of goodbyes that neither had wanted to end, before Mycroft had reluctantly left for work. Both had been too distracted to notice that Mycroft had forgotten his brolly, until Mycroft had texted an hour later, lamenting the rain. The nerve endings of Sherlock’s lips still tingle with its sweetness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last look they had shared. Fuck. The way he is moping about this makes it seem like Mycroft had left for a month-long journey rather than a few measly hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve known you for over a decade, and only today – I found out your birthdate.” Lestrade sounds somewhat disappointed – likely at himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not important.” Sherlock waves it away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s true, he had never liked to make a big deal out of his birthday, although yesterday… was special. He would be amenable to quiet celebrations like that in the future. Where Mycroft and he could be free to be who they are. He moves to the fridge and grabs the cakes. He then cuts up a small slice of both for Lestrade to sample, and some for himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade looks even more astonished at the offering of birthday cake and a fork to eat it with as Sherlock provides them both with a mug of adequately brewed tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mm… how delicious their kisses had been yesterday, with their mouths flavoured by the most scrumptious of cakes, Mrs. Hudson’s delicious dinner and a heavenly white wine! The feeling of Mycroft’s tongue slyly slipping into the cavern of Sherlock’s mouth, that toe-curling sensation that takes over when Mycroft’s tongue comes into contact against his own – perfusing his body with heat. With want. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock sighs, drawing Lestrade’s attention once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t been the same… since that terrorist threat you and John defused…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I haven’t.” Sherlock plays with his cake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is the first time they’ve breached this topic, even though Lestrade had clearly been wanting to ask weeks ago. Sherlock commends Lestrade on his patience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade winces when the tines of Sherlock’s fork drags noisily against the plate. “Your brother – he’s still here? I saw one of his brollies on the stand. I mean… he stays with you, still?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, most embarrassingly, at that point – Sherlock bursts into uncontrollable tears, burying his face into the sleeves of his turtleneck. He wants Mycroft. Aside from that innocent text exchange involving Mycroft’s forgotten umbrella, he had held off on sending any other texts – feeling that his excessive neediness would put his brother off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can hear Lestrade being torn – to go and comfort him, or to stay where he is. Lestrade isn’t stupid, he had noticed rather quickly Sherlock’s discomfort over the past month whenever he had gotten too close, so he had kept his respectful distance in subsequent meetings. Lestrade opts to sit, and Sherlock can feel the concern and care radiating from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost annoying in its magnitude. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wad of tissues is eventually dropped in front of him, and Sherlock uses them to wipe at his tears and blow his nose when he eventually begins to calm down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn. He thought he had gotten over these crying spells, but evidently not. This is the first time he’s cried in front of someone that’s not Mycroft. Rape victims (as much as he hates to label himself as such) are prone to labile emotions. It’s normal – he tells himself frequently. It’s a process that he will have to deal with. Being a genius does not make one exempt. He tries hard to view it as an objective fact, but nevertheless, he still feels pathetic with these outbursts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” Lestrade leans forward a little when Sherlock regains some of his equilibrium. “Do you want me to get you something, someone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head. “No. I-I… fuck.” He tries again. “It happens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to go…?” Lestrade asks carefully. “I can come back tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Not necessary.” Sherlock takes a deliberate breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can deal with this.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to talk about it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really. Some days are worse than others…” Sherlock sighs. He then adds for context. “When I went away, things weren’t pleasant –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I figured. When you were out there saving all our sorry hides.” Lestrade says with compassion, reminding Sherlock of all the other victims that Lestrade had talked to over the course of his career. How Sherlock fucking hates it. That he’s one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>them </span>
  </em>
  <span>now. “Are you seeing anyone for –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Mycroft offered me all sorts of shrinks, I refused them all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade smiles somewhat. “They do help. I see one myself, ever since the divorce happened. And sometimes, when the cases go tits up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. Mycroft is still trying to convince me. I don’t know. I try. I think I am getting better, but it’s slow going.” And then because he’s curious and desperately needs another topic of conversation, he asks. “Have you spoken to John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I am afraid, Sherlock, that while you were gone – John took it the worst out of all of us. After he moved out of here, he pretty much cut off contact with all of us. Mrs. Hudson. Me. Molly. Everyone. Did you –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. He hasn’t reached out since the case, and I am too much of a mess to even think about reaching out… I thought he had forgiven me… but –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For fuck’s sake. Sherlock – you mean he still doesn’t know why you jumped off that bloody roof?” Lestrade sounds genuinely angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shake of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for a lack of me trying to tell him. He refused to hear anything about it.” Sherlock sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That does sound like him. Stubborn. Holds a surprising grudge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Sherlock frowns. “No. It’s clear he hasn’t forgiven me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, Sherlock – you do have other friends, remember. And I am certainly grateful that you saved my arse, at the expense of…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t do anything different if I had to do it again.” Sherlock then takes another shuddering breath. Enough of this sentimental rubbish. He says firmly. “Let’s tackle the case you brought now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade pulls out a stack of documents and pictures and they spend the next hour or so pouring over the details of London’s latest murder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had never found it so hard to concentrate before. He must have spent two minutes reading the same sentence, when a simple report like this would have only taken him a grand total of five minutes tops to finish, previously. The Prime Minister had barged into his office barely half-an-hour ago, and Mycroft still doesn’t know what that bumbling man had wanted. He had lost interest within the first two sentences. The first being the customary New Year’s greeting. His body, ingrained in the habits of polite conversation, had nodded and said the right things at the right moments – evidenced by the satisfied look on that man’s face before he had disappeared behind the door. All he can think of is the sad look in his brother’s eyes before they had parted ways this morning. Feel the ghost of their last kiss against his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t wanted to leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Has a trip up north really changed them so much? Changed their relationship to the point where not being in the same room as the other feels wrong? Is this what they call the ‘honeymoon phase’ of a relationship? Where emotions feel so intense, so raw? And, Sherlock – who is slowly but surely making a recovery – would he still feel this way after Serbia becomes a distant memory? His phone vibrates, and he has a look at the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I may, or may not have bawled in front of Lestrade like a little child. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Lock. Dear, Lock. Mycroft sighs. But such a message gladdens Mycroft in the sense that Sherlock trusts him enough to share with him all of these things, no matter how vulnerable they make him feel. How much he would have given to have a fraction of the trust, the closeness that Lock and he has now before Sherlock had gone away! </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I refrained from texting you all morning aside from answering your text. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why, brother? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a brief pause. Mycroft can imagine it, Sherlock’s fingers poised over the screen – trying to make sense of unfamiliar feelings. The look of concentration upon his face. How much to reveal… how much to hold back. After all, sentiment is a new mystery for them to unravel together. He would know, he navigates the same dilemma as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t want to bother you. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t want to annoy you with my neediness. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh good. He isn’t the only one addled by nonsense. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you too, Lock. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to be home with you right now. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t want to leave this morning. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And you aren’t annoying me. I am just annoyed that I can’t concentrate on anything… MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Except, you. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Awful, isn’t it? Lestrade probably thinks I have a traumatic brain injury or something. He’s had to redirect my thoughts every few minutes. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft laughs delightedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you eat, little brother mine? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ate some cake with Lestrade. SH </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, that’s something. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If you want me to eat a square meal, Mycroft, you better come home and make me! SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighs deeply when he checks his schedule. One meeting at four that he cannot abandon. Never has he ever wanted a workday to just end. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Regretfully, I won’t be home until six, dear. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will just starve then. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock. If you are hungry, please go eat something. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will live. SH </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Go and run the world, big brother. Then come home as my lover afterwards. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alright. I love you. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know. I love you too. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling, Mycroft puts the phone down and goes back to his report. Somehow, just that small exchange clears up the fog in his brain, and the rest of the afternoon passes just a little quicker. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mm… you smell of walnut and pine – mm… turpentine perhaps.” Mycroft observes after he ardently kisses his brother ‘hello’ a little later. “Broken out Mummy’s oil paints then, hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Sherlock replies. His hot breath ghosts across Mycroft’s skin, sending the smallest of shudders down his spine. “I thought.. It might be therapeutic. I haven’t done oils in a long time, but it’s like riding a bike. One doesn’t forget.” He then admits. “I couldn’t concentrate on Lestrade’s bloody case, but I could at least concentrate on this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was having trouble concentrating too earlier.” Mycroft shares, after another sweet, chaste kiss. “Kept reading the same sentence over and over again –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What were you thinking about, brother?” Sherlock’s tone takes a turn for the more salacious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Prime Minister –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Liar.” Sherlock leans just a little further, brushing his nose and cheek against Mycroft’s neck. “I bet that odious man came into your office and you tuned him out within three sentences.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft all but sighs when his brother mouths at one of the pulse points of his neck. It’s lovely, seeing little brother being so playful, his iridescent eyes twinkling with mischief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me.” Sherlock’s hands slide up to his shoulders now, and his irises darken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lady Small –” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft, if you say her name right this moment, I am going to be highly displeased.” Sherlock’s words are staccato, and each hot punctuated syllable against the sensitive skin of his neck makes Mycroft highly aware of his own arousal. His brother’s hand presses possessively against his chest, and despite the waistcoat and shirt that he has on, it feels like the palm is directly touching his bare skin – searing it. Sherlock then threatens. “Maybe, I might even tell Mummy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their eyes catch, and they both suddenly laugh at the absurdity of such a situation. It defuses the charged atmosphere immediately – leaving them with a comforting companionable warmth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell her what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That you’ve been running around with an old hag, brother mine – breaking my heart.” Sherlock says jokingly, but Mycroft can hear the barest of note of insecurity in his tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, Lock – it’s you.” Mycroft drops the charade, grabbing his brother by his too-slender waist and kissing him once more into oblivion. “Of course it’s you. How could you not possibly know that? Lover mine.” He revisits Sherlock’s lips, now tasting the slightest hint of ginger nut and fruit that Mrs. Hudson had managed to get his brother to nibble on earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lover mine.” Sherlock gives him a small smile when they part. “I like that.” He reaches out to remove Mycroft’s suit jacket and undo the buttons of his waistcoat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Mycroft watches as his brother undresses him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had become a little ritual of sorts before the holidays. Sherlock reverently removing the layers of his armour after he had finished doing battle with the various personalities, egos and motivations influencing the actions of the British government for the day. His brother pulls off the silver claymore tie pin that he had purchased on their trip to Scotland, and unknots the full Windsor knot of his tie that Sherlock had tied himself earlier in the morning for him. For a man who hates wearing ties, Sherlock sure does love tying Mycroft’s tie for him. Sherlock’s fingers relish the luxurious materials, and the tenderness in his beloved face is always a welcome sight in the evenings after a long day’s toil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother leads him further into the flat, dropping off the clothes into the hamper meant for dry cleaning and Mycroft catches a glimpse of Sherlock’s new painting setup – the floor covered with newsprint, a large sturdy easel, a canvas with a mess of colour abstractly resembling a view of the North Sea that they had seen on their trip (it’s evident that Sherlock is simply just practicing and experimenting with his techniques on this work; it’s not meant to be a serious attempt) and the window is left wide open to air out the fumes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Off to the side, there is a series of photographs of various young and middle-aged individuals (three women, one man) and crime scenes and newspaper clippings tacked up onto the wall. There are even closeups shots of three of the victims’ bodies – with a smiley-face drawn on their left cheek with industrial strength markers. A new serious case. The flowers and balloons that Mycroft had bought yesterday had been moved from the kitchen to a spot of honour in the living room (presumably so that Sherlock can see them as he works and thinks) and it fills his chest with affection to know that Sherlock thinks of him constantly as he indulges in his pursuits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A new case, brother mine?” Mycroft asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes. Possible new serial killer and rapist. Comes and goes without a trace, besides drawing smiley faces on his victims. Two died by strangulation, one by blunt trauma and another by drowning. No smiley face on the drowning victim, but it was spray-painted in yellow on the outdoor pool tiles. One of the women and the man showed signs of rape. It’s been giving Lestrade an aneurysm. He’s had no good leads thus far, and all the pictures of the crime scenes Anderson has been taking for me has not turned up anything. None of the victims are related, and there are no incriminating materials on any of the corpses. Everything is incredibly random, even in the ways the bodies are disposed of.” Sherlock says neutrally, but Mycroft can see his lips curl up with some distaste. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a distinct lack of excitement on his brother’s part, even though the Sherlock of long ago would have been ecstatic over such a case with a cunning adversary. But Mycroft doesn’t mention the observation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do take care.” Mycroft says instead, while burying the worry in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows Sherlock’s job deals with the unsavoury, the darkest stains in humanity – but now that he’s this deeply involved with his brother, the idea of his lover getting hurt, captured, tortured or even killed is almost too much to bear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, he can’t ask Sherlock to not do his job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will.” Sherlock then says a little bitterly. “It’s not like I am going to be able to leave the flat anytime soon, My. Not by myself.” He looks up, seeing the expression on Mycroft’s face and he adds, his voice softer. “I promise I won’t run off alone after any criminals, Mycroft. I don’t want to leave you any more than you want to leave me. Especially if there isn’t a promise that we would meet again after our time is up here – in this world. In this universe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Lock.” Mycroft holds his brother in his arms, letting their cheeks brush against the other – feeling the fragility of the human condition. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Hudson, I don’t think this is a good idea…” Sherlock almost whimpers when he steps near the front door, close enough to hear the passing noises and to feel the vibrations of the traffic going down Baker Street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson tuts. She is dressed in one of her nicer grey dresses – a little light for a February day with her purse in her hand. “Nonsense. We are just going to walk a few blocks to the park. It’s a lovely afternoon, Sherlock – I won’t have you cooped upstairs all day and month like a decrepit vampire.” She then grins. “It’s not like I am asking you to go to Tesco’s with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock steps back and cringes. All those oblivious goldfish milling about the aisles, blocking the pathways with their carts. Unruly children touching everything and running roughshod. People accidentally walking too close and brushing up against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could always be worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try, dearie. If you can’t handle it, we will turn around and go straight home. I promise.” Mrs. Hudson rests her hand on Sherlock’s forearm, and all he could do is give her a weak nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a deep and apprehensive breath, Sherlock steps out for the first time onto Baker Street without his brother in this new year – into the sunlight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like spring, or an early summer’s day. Mycroft strides readily through Regent’s Park with a picnic basket prepared by Anthea in hand. The cold-battered grasses are already beginning to return to their fine green glory, while birds chirped their territorial songs high up in the trees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had gone to Baker Street first, dropping off his heavy winter coat and changing into something much more casual and appropriate for a tramp in this unusually warm weather. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had already departed – and that’s a good sign. That Sherlock is willing to try going outside with someone else. Another step forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is surprised when a nanny pushing a pram drops the leash of a rambunctious terrier, and the little dog tears away in Mycroft’s direction. Without thinking too much, he chases after the dog after putting down the basket, managing to grab the miscreant’s leash before the terrier has gotten too far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, thank you!” The non-descript middle-aged woman claps her hand together when Mycroft walks up to her, terrier in tow. “Little Toby is such a scamp!” She then looks at Mycroft seriously. “Hang on! Haven’t I seen you before? Watching the yaffles pecking away at the trees in the South Downs?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is about to say that he has no idea what she is talking about, but there’s something about her that seems familiar. Ah. It had been several years ago. An old treacherous conversation in a lion’s den. Or rather, a viper’s pit. She had been there in the background. A wronged woman! She had finally done it then! Although, how she knew he was here, he had no clue. The old words roll off his tongue. “No, I was keeping bees down at the combe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, but you looked so familiar. I guess not. Bless you, kind stranger.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he hands the leash back to the woman, he feels something being pressed into the palm of his hand. A tiny USB stick wrapped in a piece of paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both walk off in opposite directions without looking back, Mycroft stuffing the USB down into his shirt pocket and retrieving his basket from the ground. Best not to think right now, he muses – while closing his eyes, soaking up the rays – taking a moment to allow the adrenaline to dissipate. Gods. He hasn’t done this sort of thing since he had been in his twenties. Sherlock would laugh at how utterly cliché this whole cloak-and-dagger operation had gone, but Mycroft has no intention of telling him anything about this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no need to worry him at this present moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets his feet take him over to Primrose Hill – where his lover and his landlady awaits. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Mycroft!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is in abject disbelief when he sees his practically unrecognizable brother (dressed fashionably in a linen white shirt with his dark wiry chest hair curling over the top, a dark blazer to keep things from being too casual and a pair of deliciously tight jeans) walk up toward them with a picnic basket in hand. Looking so irresistible. The sunlight bringing out the copperish hues of his dark hair. His brother’s casual outfits are getting braver by the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hullo, ‘Lock –” Mycroft grunts when Sherlock flings himself readily into his arms while Mrs. Hudson takes the picnic basket from his hand. “My brave boy.” Mycroft reaches up to mess around with Sherlock’s wild curls which badly need a visit to the coiffeur’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn, Sherlock deduces, this had been a scheme set up by Mrs. Hudson and his brother to reward him for leaving Baker Street. A picnic to watch the sun set over London. He isn’t even mad. It hadn’t even been that terrible when he had walked down Baker Street, enjoying the warm spring-like breeze caress his skin. Mrs. Hudson had kept a gentle hand on his forearm the entire way, grounding him as Mycroft had done during these trips to the outside world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Lock – what is this?” Mycroft’s fingers are tracing the curve of Sherlock’s cheek – catching drops of moisture that had fallen from Sherlock’s eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gods, he’s crying again. Sherlock buries his face into the junction of Mycroft’s neck and shoulder and gives a shake of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong, darling boy?” Mycroft whispers tenderly for Sherlock’s ears only, letting his fingertips delicately comb through Sherlock’s locks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a while for Sherlock to answer. He hiccups and sniffs before the word “sentiment” makes it past his lips in a somewhat garbled fashion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock, my dear – of course. You will always have me. And, Mrs. Hudson. Even Anthea – if you ever make it to Whitehall one of these days. Mummy too. I think she’s planning to see you next week.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock does know. Mummy and he have been communicating by text. He can handle her caring in small doses, so she will pop by for a little while in between her social visits to friends and her shopping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come, let’s sit down, darling – Mrs. Hudson has laid out our picnic.” Mycroft gently guides him down to the ground – covered by a brightly blue plaid blanket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock leans against his brother as he grabs a gourmet sandwich from the pile on a plate – roast chicken, olive tapenade and goat cheese. He takes a hearty bite while Mycroft takes a cucumber with cream cheese (his favourite sandwich since childhood). His brother’s free arm is wrapped comfortingly around his waist as he and Mrs. Hudson have a discussion (gossip) about the Queen or something. Sherlock isn’t paying attention, preferring to watch the birds fluttering about in the branches of the trees nearby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson presses a cup of cold strawberry Pimm’s into one of Sherlock’s hands and he sips at it, feeling the liquor further warm his insides – his soul perhaps. His eyes then roam about the view of the London skyline, and he cannot help thinking that Lestrade’s serial killer and rapist is still running loose in there. A month later – and no leads. Beyond frustrating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Essentially they are just waiting for the killer to make a mistake now, and Sherlock hates that. Hates that someone else would have to suffer. And he can’t even go see the crime scenes or talk to the suspects. Not for the first time, he wonders how he had once found all of this </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s</span>
  <em>
    <span> ghastly. </span>
  </em>
  <span>These rapists, murderers – like Petrović ought to be sent to Hell like the scum they are. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand touches his back, just between his scapulae, and he sighs when Mycroft runs his hand soothingly down. He hadn’t even noticed that he had tensed up during his thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No ginger nuts in this basket, but here’s a chocolate chip, dear.” Mrs. Hudson offers him a biscuit, and Sherlock eats it without hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mm… rather chewy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock eats another sandwich (roasted red pepper and arugula) before declining the dessert (a fancy raspberry and peach trifle portioned out in jars). Mycroft will eat his portion as trifle is his favourite dessert. Sherlock soon finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness with his head resting on Mycroft’s thigh. Simply watching the sparse but big fluffy clouds float across the clear blue sky. Flashes of orange, yellows and red have started creeping into the blue as the sun has begun its descent, colouring a normally glum February evening with brilliance. Fingers lightly tug at his curls, eliciting sounds of contentment from him, and Sherlock wonders what right does he have to be happy? There’s a killer he hasn’t yet found. The smiley faces on the victims’ cheeks mock him every time he walks by the photographs in the living room. Sherlock is half-tempted to take them down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it takes him back to another conversation that Mycroft and he had had before he had left to dismantle Moriarty’s web. About how if he locks up and breaks up the personnel and infrastructure of the operations, there is just simply a competitor waiting in the wings to take their place – the futility of it all – and Mycroft had said: “That’s life, Sherlock. But, it’s rather similar to the story of the boy and the starfish.” Millions of starfish beached on the shore. A herculean task to throw them all back into the ocean. And no doubt, for every few one throws back in, a few more will be washed ashore. Why bother? Alas, it made a difference to the one thrown back. Yes, and Sherlock had been able to save the lives of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and John with that one Fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That mattered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There will perhaps always be a serial killer, but there will only be one of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t shoulder the burdens of this country all on your own, little brother.” His brother smiles fondly down on him – having followed Sherlock’s train of thought as his clever fingers do something to his scalp that makes him slacken completely and purr. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this from your experience, My?” Sherlock lets his eyes meet the blues of Mycroft’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. You can only do what you can with what you have. It’s not sustainable otherwise.” And then Mycroft adds in a quieter voice. “This is new for me too, Lock. Learning how to stop and smell the roses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock quirks an amused eyebrow upward. “You mean corrupt the roses.” And when did he become a rose? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said it, not me.” Mycroft gives him a look. A look so affectionate that it causes a pang of yearning deep into his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock asks tentatively. “Is it worth getting pricked by all the thorns?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock – definitely. Yes. It only makes the journey so much sweeter, dearest.” And then Mycroft lets his fingers stroke down to Sherlock’s cheek, using a fingertip to trace the zygomatic arch. He whispers. “You keep asking me the same questions, dear – just worded differently.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe…” Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed, trying to put his words together – feeling incredibly vulnerable. “I need to hear the answers constantly.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And maybe, if you say it enough – I will believe it some day. That we are worth it. That I am worth it. That you won’t leave me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dearest.” Mycroft simply replies, in that tone of his – the one that seems to make the heliocentric universe come to a screeching halt, and make Sherlock feel like he’s the most important entity in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lestrade?” Sherlock picks up his phone a few days later while in the side-plank position on his yoga mat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Detective Inspector sounds half-excited, half-frantic. “Sherlock! There’s…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s what? A sixth?” Sherlock inquires, trying to make sense of Lestrade’s garbled words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well… not quite. She’s still alive. Battered. But breathing. Oh god.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know if it’s –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s… utterly ridiculous. The bollocks on this one. Was trying to chat her up – you know. Added something to her drink, and started talking about the murders. Sod it. I will let her tell her story once she gets checked out from the hospital. They want to keep her for a bit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell her story –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t mind, I would like to bring her over to Baker Street. Perhaps in the next few days. We will do the standard interview and everything, but you might get something useful out of her. She’s distraught, but amendable…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lestrade, was she –” Sherlock swallows hard, letting himself tumble onto the mat. He can’t manage to say the word. That four letter word. Fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.. Sherlock.” Lestrade takes a deep breath over the other side. As much as Sherlock had ribbed the DI over his intelligence in the past, there is still a shrewd brain capable of making observations and deductions somewhere in that skull. The man isn’t completely hopeless. He knows that Lestrade had stumbled upon the truth. “We shouldn’t have this conversation over the phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shouldn’t be having this conversation at all.” Sherlock shuts his eyes tight as the words escape from his throat hoarsely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One more person to know how broken he truly is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How destroyed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hangs up the phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later he gets a text. A picture. The face of a middle-aged woman with her makeup ruined by her tears and assault. Someone who looks oddly familiar, yet Sherlock isn’t sure if they’ve ever met. And drawn on her cheek are two dots and a wicked looking curve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smiley face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly hit by a wave of nausea – Sherlock bolts for the loo.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is in a prostrate position that Mycroft finds his brother later that evening. Sherlock is pale and listless – in that catatonic state that Mycroft hadn’t seen since the beginning of his life here in Baker Street. Little brother doesn’t even appear to notice him – having forsaken their usual rituals at the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock?” Mycroft reaches down to stroke his brother’s curls. “Sherlock?!” He tries again – squatting to meet him at eye-level, and this time his brother looks at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where is his vibrant lover? Where has his mind taken him this time? Another place where Mycroft cannot follow? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong, darling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My…” Sherlock breathes. “I can’t do this.” He whispers – his tone is shattering Mycroft’s heart into pieces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frantic, Mycroft looks at his brother’s arms – making sure that he hadn’t taken anything – but Sherlock only shakes his head. “No, not life… my job. I won’t leave you, Mycroft. Not willingly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” Mycroft sits down on the small spot on the couch that Sherlock hasn’t taken up. “You didn’t leave the house…” And by the smell of little brother’s breath – he could tell that Sherlock had thrown up earlier. “Come over here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock scurries over, literally falling into Mycroft’s arms. He nuzzles his face against big brother’s neck, inhaling the comforting scent (cologne, tea, Mycroft). His brother presses a kiss against his forehead. He lets his hand stroke the soft cotton of big brother’s shirt, letting his fingers tug and undo the knot of the striped tie as is their custom. There’s something oddly soothing about this almost daily ritual of undressing his lover from his work attire. Freeing his boyfriend(?) from the trappings of the nation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is one of those days where knowing that Mycroft will come home after work is the only thing that keeps him going. As unhealthy and codependent as that sounded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” Mycroft whispers in his ear, bestowing another kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I always will.” He gently strokes his brother’s hair, enjoying playing with his brother’s now-shoulder length curls. Sherlock refuses to go to the coiffeur – even if it’s the same man that’s been cutting his hair for years. “Call me next time, please – brother.” He lets his forehead brush against Lock’s. “No need to suffer alone.” He rubs at his own eyes with his free hand, feeling unfamiliar moisture blur his vision. “You aren’t alone.” His arm tightens around his brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your job…?” Sherlock murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can hang.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even if you are talking to the PM…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are some calls that I’ve had to take while dealing with the Prime Minister, little brother. It’s not new. Emergent MI6 briefings. Updates on crucial international negotiations. Terrorist threats. Now you.” Mycroft smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve always said I was a terror.” Sherlock’s lips curve slightly into a semblance of a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My terror.” Mycroft finally lets his lips tangle with his brother’s – not giving a toss about what he had smelled earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm…” Sherlock sighs when they part – he should have brushed his teeth, but he had felt so… desolate after he had thrown up. Not quite thrown into the vivid flashbacks that he had experienced before. Perhaps the correct term would have been derealization. Things… just seemed surreal. Off-axis. As if he was looking down at himself from an alternative plane of existence. Another PTSD symptom. He’s really been collecting them all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson strides in, bearing a tray of dinner. She doesn’t say anything as she places the tray on the coffee table, but Mycroft could tell she looked relieved by the fact that Sherlock wasn’t lying about like a zombie on the couch anymore. He knows that she checks on Sherlock several times an hour and would text him if she grew seriously concerned. When she leaves, Sherlock whispers. “Not hungry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I figured. But Lock – you have to eat.” Mycroft lets his hand run down Sherlock’s torso, feeling the contours of Sherlock’s still too-prominent skeleton. “You’ve been doing so well, lover mine. Even gained a pound last week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock doesn’t speak, but simply buries his head deeper against his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Lock – it’s your favourite.” Mycroft reaches forward to grab a fork and twirl some creamy linguine around the tines and stab a shrimp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My…” Sherlock murmurs, shaking his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, brother.” Mycroft coaxes. He eats the forkful of pasta, and takes another morsel, this time bringing it toward Sherlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock lets his mouth fall open, and he lets Mycroft feed him. Mrs. Hudson’s cooking has always been delicious (and healthier than having takeaway), but yet – he eats it automatically, not savouring the taste as he usually would have. His brother manages to get a few bites of linguine and shrimp into him, two forkfuls of salad and one of the crème brûlée cheesecake bars. He tries. He really does as he knows Mrs. Hudson has been making all of the things he likes to eat in order to whet his appetite, but reading the history from the smiley killer’s last victim’s face had been a blow. He had known – of course that rape and murder had been happening, but seeing that image – and knowing that she would have to bear what Sherlock is going through right now is something new. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had seen </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself</span>
  </em>
  <span> in her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that – he hadn’t been able to stop it. And… Lestrade wants him to talk to her? There probably wouldn’t be much of him left after this conversation. The DI had called several times after, but Sherlock obviously hadn’t picked up the phone. And he had texted incessantly since their phone call, but Sherlock hadn’t bothered to check his messages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft says, and it’s a meaningful syllable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock can hear everything that is unspoken. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tell me what’s wrong. Or don’t. I want to help you, darling. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He doesn’t want big brother to have to deal with all his shite as well, after coming home from his own work. But he gestures to his phone, and Mycroft picks it up from the coffee table. His brother promptly unlocks it, seeing the texts from Lestrade. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock. Please pick up the phone. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t know. Sherlock, it’s alright if you don’t want to talk to her. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please let me know you are okay. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There are other texts along those lines sent within the last few hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps, you should text him back, brother mine.” Mycroft suggests gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head. “I can’t. Not now. Scroll up a little more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft does, and he sees the picture that certainly was the breaking point for his brother. A plain-looking middle-aged woman with features that resembled… Damn. He knows who this is. It’s Dr. Watson’s sibling. Harriet. He had seen pictures of her when he had been vetting Dr. Watson when he had first moved into Baker Street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Sherlock didn’t recognize her? The sister of his ex-best friend?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees: sexual assault, a violent struggle to escape from a man at least a stone heavier than her – taller too, that she is sober again, but perhaps this incident may be another factor that could send her down another spiral of alcoholism – the killer has gotten bold, now drawing his signature on his victims before they die – the curve of the smiley’s mouth matches the pictures posted on the wall nearby; the man is left handed. Might be a landscaper… perhaps. This killer. Or a roofer. Or even be an electrician. More data perhaps. Whatever he does, the killer clearly owns his own business, has access to various properties and does something with his hands for a living. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mycroft doesn’t voice any of his deductions to his brother, knowing that he isn’t ready to handle any of that. His brother must be seriously perturbed if he didn’t even pick up on the identity of this latest victim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead he asks. “Do you want me to send a text to him? Before he resorts to coming here himself to make sure you are –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. He knows you live here anyways.” Sherlock mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft texts from Sherlock’s phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock is safe. It may be a while before he’s inclined to answering your messages again, Detective Inspector. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The Detective Inspector’s texts come immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank god. I was wondering if I should make the trip over to check up on him. Please tell him that I am sorry. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t mean to pressure him into doing anything he’s not up for. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Holmes. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft puts the phone back down, turning his full attention to his brotherly lover. “Anything in particular you want to do tonight, dear?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head. After a moment had passed, he asks tentatively. “My?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, lover mine?” Mycroft kisses his curls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just hold me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Mycroft wraps his arm a little tighter around his Lock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother sighs contentedly and rests his head anterior to Mycroft’s heart.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So, what exactly did you find?” Mycroft inquires as he carefully shuts the door to his office, after stepping out to ensure that there was no one around to interrupt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir. There is an encryption key and an address to a server. There is documentation providing a string of dates and time intervals in the near future. The document is titled MAC.” Anthea furrows her brow, before saying, “It could be likely this is a one-time entry encryption key, although I have to say that I do not know anything about the server itself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft releases a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding. “Anthea. Or should I say – Deirdre. We’ve worked together for a long time –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir. You can trust me absolutely. I will never forget what you did for me back in 2002. Beirut. I genuinely thought I was a goner…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you have my absolute trust, my dear. It’s a matter of –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Danger.” Anthea interjects, finishing Mycroft’s sentence for him. She winks. “Don’t you miss it, sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not particularly.” Mycroft gives a small shake of his head. He had been all too happy to trade in his days of MI6 scutwork for the comforts of an office.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps your brother and I are tarred with the same brush. A mention of danger – and I come running. Towards the fire, of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Naturally.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft then feels rather grim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Lock he has waiting for him at home is not wading into danger anytime soon. His brother hadn’t left the flat since the day of their picnic a few days ago, nor has he been answering Lestrade’s texts. He sighs. It’s Valentine’s Day. On the way back, he will buy some goodies in the hopes of lifting his spirits. Provided that Mummy didn’t overwhelm him completely during her visit in the afternoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you brought me in here, sir, to frighten me off this case – you are misguided.” Anthea sits back against the visitor’s chair, her legs casually crossed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought so. I never thought I would want to ‘so to speak’ kick over the hornet’s nest. But, it is necessary now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I didn’t mind all those nasty devils sniffing around my shins, looking for any whiff of a scandal to bring me down, but now…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is something scandalous.” Anthea’s lips curve into a small smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to send a message.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do. It should be in all caps. ‘Don’t fuck with me.’ Excuse my French.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea looks delighted. “Ah. So this server –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I am not mistaken, this may be the fabled vault of secrets –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Magnussen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely. A long time ago, Anthea – I spent a stint working undercover amongst the elites as a manservant – if you care to believe that. Ghastly assignment. There was a love triangle. Two men, one woman. One of them was CAM. He lost the battle, but won the war. Although, the winning is rather questionable. Shortly after the lovebirds wed, there was a suicide. And then the husband died of grief –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blackmail.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure CAM would say he found his true love in this skirmish. His love of making people dance to his tune. Media mogul. Blackmailer. And of course, there was the daughter of the deceased couple –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think he was very nice to her –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. He broke up her marriage to Lord Egremont. That was in the papers. I was there when it happened. Of course, the waitstaff are treated like furniture… so I stood there while he ripped her heart out and licked at her cheek. And kissed her. With tongue. Then forced her to work for him as a maid.” Mycroft says with mild distaste, replaying the cruel scene all too readily in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You weren’t his manservant –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh good god, no. This all happened in a villa in Italy. He was there for three days. I find it interesting that he was never able to connect me with that event all those years ago – even though he’s made it one of his missions to find out my pressure point, simply because it would be a challenge. Annoying man.” Mycroft brushes imaginary lint off his sleeve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait. So. The daughter brought you the USB. And sir, I am sure you were a top-notch agent back in the day, there’s no way your marks would remember who you were.” Anthea then smiles determinedly. “Well, leave it to me, sir – I will seek out this vault of treasures. Would that be all, sir?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe so. I would imagine there would be a lot of sensitive information –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s cross that bridge when we arrive, sir.” Anthea stands up, signalling the end of their discussion. “Your eleven o’clock should be here soon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Today is already proving to be a difficult day. Sherlock had dragged himself out of bed an hour or two after Mycroft had vacated it for work. If it weren’t for Mummy’s impending visit, he would have probably just stayed in bed all day long, feeling rather listless and unmotivated – just as he had done the day before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He had been slow, the sixth victim is John’s sister. Harry. Mycroft had seen it as soon as he had glanced at the picture. If he understands the family dynamics properly, Harry would probably keep her assault to herself, and not speak to her brother about it. Especially as the older sibling. There is a list of resentments between the two of them that are as long as the list between Mycroft and himself before they had become an item. He ought to talk to her, but yet – Sherlock isn’t mentally ready for such a discussion – and with every day that passes, she is no doubt forgetting pertinent details of the assault. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had cleaned himself up, dressed rather haphazardly and stared at his breakfast that Mycroft had made for him before he had left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm… isn’t there something special about today? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of the door knocker from downstairs causes him to jump. It’s Mummy, and he can hear Mrs. Hudson walk over to the front to let her in. She’s early. He could hear voices exchanging pleasantries, and Mrs. Hudson saying that she would bring a little something up shortly to whet their appetites. There is a polite knock at his door before it swings open – and he sees Mummy in a new trendy frock coat, bearing bags of shopping. She had gotten up early to hit her favourite stores at Oxford and Bond Streets after staying the night at one of her friends’ fashionable flats. Their parents maintain a vibrant social life that contrasts starkly with their sons’ nonexistent ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock. Dear.” She puts her bags down, and removes her coat, scarf and gloves before walking over to where Sherlock sits at the dining table. “How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looks up at her, suddenly feeling like the small child that he had been decades ago. He has fond memories of Mummy as a child – remembering a snowball fight that they had out in the garden. Hot cocoa in front of the fireplace. It had been her who had brought him an adorable ball of fur on his fifth birthday that had been his second best friend. Redbeard. Taught him the language of the flowers – oh fuck… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t it Valentine’s Day today?” He wonders out loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy chuckles. “Oh Sherlock, yes it is.” She reaches over cautiously, and Sherlock nods – letting her stroke his forearm. “It’s alright, dear – I am sure your brother wouldn’t hold it against you –” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But that’s the point. I am always forgetting about things like this, while Mycroft remembers… well everything.” Sherlock buries his face against his hands – disbelieving that he is having this conversation with his Mummy of all people. Not to mention caring about this banal commercialized holiday. Alas it’s an excuse to celebrate love, and Sherlock loves his brother. Wants to show him that he cares and is grateful for him putting up with all his shit. God. He’s pathetic. “And… I can’t go outside to go buy something at the last minute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not all gifts are bought, Sherlock. I am sure Myc would prefer something that you spent some time putting together… like a painting… or even food. And speaking of food, your breakfast is getting cold.” Mummy glances disapprovingly at the untouched plate of toast, fried eggs and tomatoes, rashers and beans. “I am sure Myc would be even happier if you just ate everything on your plate –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have an appetite.” Sherlock folds his knees against his chest, wrapping his arms around them after putting the fork back down on the table, giving up on the task of eating. This week has been particularly awful. He then sighs and whispers. “It’s so hard sometimes. I could hardly get out of bed the last few days. I can’t even do my bloody job. Can’t even walk a step out of here on my own. This isn’t living, Mummy. In some twist of fate, it’s as if Moriarity won.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not going to deny it, if it wasn’t for Mycroft, he might have ended it months ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock.” Mummy grasps his hand. “It’s going to take time, dear –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s already been months.” Sherlock mutters, a tad petulantly. “I feel like such a burden to everyone.” And then he adds, not wanting Mummy to think that he’s completely hopeless. Even though at times, he does feel that way. “Somedays, it isn’t so bad.” He tries to smile. “The days when Mycroft is home. Sometimes I feel like sketching or painting. That makes the time pass quickly.” He then frowns. “Maybe I should make something for Mycroft…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could bake something. I am sure your Mrs. Hudson would be happy to lend you some ingredients and kitchenware, Sherlock – darling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you… could you help me?” Sherlock asks tentatively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, dear. Eat a few bites of breakfast – and I will go downstairs and see what Mrs. Hudson is willing to part with.” Mummy ducks her head down to press a peck on Sherlock’s cheek. “And, I am certain Mycroft doesn’t see you as a burden. Coming home to you is probably what he looks forward the most –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know?” Sherlock asks sharply. “He’s going home to more work…” He sighs dejectedly. Coming home to a barely functioning little brother. Who struggles with the simplest basics of everyday life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should see him when he talks about you, Sherlock. How his eyes light up. He –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Loves me.” Sherlock says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft tells him this everyday without fail. Not just with words, but through his touch, his actions – his thoughtfulness. The devastation in his brother’s face when Sherlock had said ‘I can’t do this.’ – thinking the worst had happened barely a week ago. They haven’t had sex since Harry’s photo had shown up on his phone. Mycroft doesn’t complain, even though Sherlock is very aware of his brother dealing with his urges in the loo. He wants to be the one pleasuring his man. And it eats at him, that he cannot do so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning his head slightly, he sees the vibrant splash of greens, pinks and purples on his work table in the living room – pink Asiatic lilies, Peruvian lilies, waxflowers, lavender daisy poms and statice with greenery scattered about in a vase – a cheery reminder that Mycroft cares about him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still shocks him – how Mummy takes their change in relationship status with such ease. “I know. I.. love him too.” He feels something warm escape his eyes – and suddenly he feels arms around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprisingly – he simply sags against Mummy – his nose taking in the scent of her characteristic flowery perfume and the tea that she had drank earlier on in the day. Gods. It’s been so long since he’s derived any sort of comfort from his parents – and he finds it soothing. Mummy rocks him gently – like she had done when Sherlock had been a small toddler. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Familiar footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock takes a breath, before heading over to the door preemptively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can do this. Mummy believes in him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy had left approximately half an hour ago, with a promise to return before the end of the month. Surprisingly, Sherlock finds himself looking forward to it. The afternoon with Mummy and even Mrs. Hudson had been enjoyable; they had cooked and baked while Mrs. Hudson and Mummy exchanged gossip – trying to outdo each other in terms of producing the most ludicrous story. Rather like fishermen telling tales of the biggest fish that they’ve ever caught. He had found it stupid at first, but as the content grew more and more ridiculous, even he couldn’t hide a smile – which was probably the intent behind the nonsense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock could tell that Mummy hadn’t intended to stay so long, but had done so – for him. “You can do it, dear. Look after your brother. I will see you soon.” is what she had said, before she had left to catch her train. Taking her confidence, Sherlock had gone to his room to prepare for his brother’s arrival, before the traumatized portion of his psyche could attempt to regain control. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door swings open before Mycroft could even reach for his key. It had been a week since Lock had greeted him at the door, and he likes what he sees, compared to the barely arousable, despondent Sherlock that he had left in the bed this morning. Sherlock had showered just now, dressed in his favourite aubergine shirt and slacks. There is something bright and alert in his beautiful eyes. Irresistible. Mycroft hangs his brolly on the antique coat stand, and immediately hooks his free arm around Sherlock’s waist – bringing him in for a kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mpph.” Sherlock mumbles when they break it to breathe, and he initiates the next – feeling an almost forgotten need rise up within him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loses himself to the kisses. The flat door is kicked shut, Mycroft loses his coat and suit jacket and Sherlock’s fingers fumble at the knot of the grey tie – eagerly divesting his brother of his clothes. His suit of armour. The primitive need flares within Sherlock – and it becomes a necessity that Mycroft needs to be naked; to feel his bare skin against his own flesh.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They end up in his room – where Mycroft gently pushes Sherlock onto his bed. His brother clambers over him, and cautiously approaches Sherlock’s buttons – his blue eyes searching furtively for any sign that Sherlock wants to stop. There are none. Mycroft’s lips meet his again – and they kiss so sweetly, Mycroft’s tongue caressing his sensitive flesh and he gasps when the probing muscle breaches his mouth and delicately comes into contact with his tongue. Fuck. It’s electrifying. It’s exciting in a way that Sherlock had never known. They usually make love on Mycroft’s mattress outside, but never in here. In his inner sanctum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock isn’t wearing anything underneath his shirt. Mycroft realizes as his hand comes into contact with warm skin, as he finishes undoing the buttons of the aubergine shirt. Good god, what happened this afternoon to give Lock such courage? He wonders, but he does not stop to ask. He caresses the soft skin, while allowing his tongue to ensnare Sherlock’s own – savouring and memorizing all the delights his sensory afferents offer him. His brother had eaten today – sweets, cake – even spaghetti! Wonders never cease! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All too soon, they separate again for air – and Mycroft looks meaningfully down at Sherlock’s body – the cotton poplin parted to reveal a tantalizing slice of Sherlock’s bare alabaster flesh, before looking up again – seeing the mesmerizing colours in Sherlock’s irises. The emotions swirling within. He could stay here forever. Mycroft muses – just watching his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers grasp one side of Sherlock’s parted shirt – and he watches as the pigments in Sherlock’s eyes seem to shift once more – looking so vulnerable under the light of the dying sun streaming through the gap in the curtains. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
  <span> They seem to say to him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Go on.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mycroft ducks down once more, letting his nose brush against his brother’s and Sherlock’s hand rises up to cup Mycroft’s cheek, guiding him to another kiss. Tentatively his hands reach for Sherlock’s shirt once more, when they need to respire again, and Sherlock says, his voice quiet. Brittle. Betraying a little hint of fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unwrap me, brother mine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, with Lock sitting up a little – Mycroft pulls the shirt off his brother’s arms with a reverence, keeping the shirt draped over his lover’s ruined back – to make sure he doesn’t feel too exposed too soon. He doesn’t dare remove his eyes from his brother’s face, ready to stop at any point Sherlock shows a twinge of discomfort. This is a gift. An offering that Mycroft thought with a certainty that he wasn’t going to get. Sherlock has never looked more beautiful to him than at this moment, his hair curling wildly. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mycroft thinks fiercely – and he is sure all this comes out through his facial expression – for he drops his mask completely when they are together like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s hands explore Sherlock’s flesh including all his scars. It is akin to reading Braille, for he could for once understand aspects of the physical reality that Sherlock had endured in his last mission. It leaves him with mixed feelings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Devastation: for he hadn’t found his brother in time to spare him such agony. He won’t deny it, but he’s spent at least one night silently weeping for the death of the man Sherlock had been before the Fall when they had been sleeping on separate beds. Bratty and rude he may have been, but Mycroft had always dearly loved (although not in the same way as before) his only sibling. This week, he had spent his work days fretting about what state he would find his brother in the evening; the deepest fear being that Sherlock would lose faith and the will to persevere. Awe: for Sherlock had endured so much and came so far. His brave little brother. Always surprising him. Keeping him on his toes. He would do anything for him. Mycroft knows. Even before they had come together like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft.” Sherlock could see the wetness leaking from his brother’s tear ducts. This is not what he had expected. But yet, he’s not surprised. For a purveyor of ideas such as ‘caring is not an advantage’ and ‘do not get involved’, his brother has endless amounts of sentiment for him. </span>
</p><p><span>His brother is already shirtless, and Sherlock loves looking at him naked. But nevertheless, the guilt in Mycroft’s mind is more of a pressing issue, so he whispers, while reaching upward for his brother’s hand. “Brother mine, here. Sh… don’t cry for me. I am alive. I am safe.” </span><em><span>I am loved.</span></em> <em><span>Because of you.</span></em><span> He says, feeling the veracity of the words echo within him. He knows the past months have been difficult for him, but for Mycroft…? </span></p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry, Lock.” Mycroft looks down at him ever so fondly. “God. I love you. How I love you.” He goes down again, whispering in Sherlock’s ear – the hot breath refueling the arousal that had thrummed within him earlier. They are kissing again, and Sherlock just wants to convey how much he loves him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A relationship is a two-way street, and Mummy most definitely had a point – that he needs to start looking after his brother too. He’s not useless. Or hopeless. He has worth. He just has to try, and hope that it is enough. There are days that are going to be miserable. He knows – but he would do as he did in Serbia. He will claw his way out of the darkness, and endure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he can’t do this for himself, he can at least do it for Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother’s chest becomes flush with Sherlock’s – and he loves it – having the solid weight of his brother pressing against him. He moans when their cocks meet for the first time in so long, and he gasps to his brother. “Take off my trousers.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprised, Mycroft complies – revealing the blue silk thong underneath. For the first time, Mycroft could clearly see the outline of his brother’s genitalia. Before he could say anything, little brother requests – shocking him. Filling him with an overwhelming amount of want. “I want you to fuck me, Mycroft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” He croaks as Sherlock gets up on his knees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My thighs.” Sherlock says, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God.” Mycroft breathes audibly as Sherlock presses a tube of lubricant into his hand. “You sure, Lock? You don’t have to – for my –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Mycroft. Do it.” Sherlock’s voice is oddly fragile, as he lets his cheek touch Mycroft’s. “Lover mine, I want you to claim me. I can’t go on like this – having the weight of the past drag me down. I hear you. You know. When you are in the loo. You try to be discreet about it, but your breathing changes when you cum. It’s killing me that I am not a part of it. And I want it too. So badly. Please.” He gasps when Mycroft kisses him again, while hearing the </span>
  <em>
    <span>snick</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the tube open. He shudders a little when lube gets drizzled between his thighs, just below his groin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hot turgid prick slides gently against Sherlock’s thighs and he clamps down – creating a tight channel for his brother to rub against. Mycroft’s arms wrap tightly around him as he thrusts, beginning slowly and cautiously – as if afraid that this act would send Sherlock back into another flashback. Eventually, his lover finds his pace; his appreciable moans of pleasure and the squelch of lube music to Sherlock’s ears. Nothing has ever felt so right. Being held in Mycroft’s arms, feeling the evidence of his love between his bare flesh. Their position shifts somewhat, and the first contact of his brother’s cock against his silk-covered perineum elicits a frisson to travel up his spine – and they are close enough for Sherlock to rub his own cock against Mycroft’s belly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feels good.” Sherlock breathes, slowing his pace a bit to draw out the pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft simply cradles his brother in his arms, looking tenderly at Sherlock’s head, resting against his shoulder. An inexplicable warmth floods him. It’s impossible – he thinks – to love his brother more than he already does, but it seems that there are dizzying new depths to be discovered. As he gets closer, he requests, using his fingers to exert pressure on his brother’s chin. “Look at me, brother. Look at me, please.” And Sherlock does and in the blues, the greens – the browns that dance in his irises – there is joy, love – and hope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, Mycroft grunts as he spills, while seconds later – he watches Sherlock gasp “I love you!” before succumbing to his own climax.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every time Mycroft gifts his brother flowers, it is as if Sherlock is receiving them for the first time. There is a flash of boyish delight in his eyes, and his cheeks would blush (adorably). And disbelief, as if he’s surprised that Mycroft would spend his time and money on these tokens of his affection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This evening is no exception, as Mycroft presents his bouquet of long-stemmed (ludicrously expensive) red roses to his brother after he emerges from the shower. Mycroft had retrieved the (fortunately intact) flowers amongst his hastily discarded clothes in the living room and a bag of board games – </span>
  <em>
    <span>Agricola </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hive</span>
  </em>
  <span> to add to their growing collection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had tidied up too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been amused to discover that the secret to Sherlock’s improved mood had been baking and a therapeutic afternoon with Mummy and Mrs. Hudson. Especially considering that the Sherlock before his travels around the world had avoided Mummy at all cost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother had presented him a platter filled with non-anatomically correct heart-shaped sugar cookies with pink and red icing, bearing words such as ‘Be Mine’, ‘Kiss Me’, ‘Love Bug’, ‘Honey Bun’, ‘Cuddle Cakes’, ‘Only You.’, ‘I Love You.’ and even one in the centre that had ‘M + S’ inscribed within it along with the date of their first kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the words are iced in Sherlock’s untidy scrawl. Damn. It is easily the most meaningful gift that Mycroft had ever received. A reminder of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>night. Where he had cheered up his brother after their little mishap in the hot tub. Mycroft had never felt so comfortable after their dinner afterwards; Sherlock and he sprawled on the thick but soft carpet in front of the cottage’s lit fireplace – putting down their Carcassonne tiles and laughing when Mycroft had drawn inconvenient tile after inconvenient tile. Their little private bubble of contentment. He needs to go travel out of London with his Lock again – those two weeks where they had been on the road had easily been some of the most magical experiences of Mycroft’s life. In consideration of his brother’s disdain for commercialized holidays and his mental state over the last few days – Mycroft hadn’t been expecting anything at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be a shame to eat them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you like them?” Sherlock had asked hesitantly when the silence had grown too long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, little brother – of course I do.” Mycroft had kissed him then, despising the look of uncertainty on his brother’s features. “It’s the most thoughtful present I’ve ever received. Thank you, dearest mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mummy made us a strawberry shortcake, and Mrs. Hudson made a plate of carpaccio, a tub of soup and spaghetti and meatballs for our dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am glad Mummy and you get along.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She… is tolerable. In small doses.” Sherlock offers, even though Mycroft knows that it isn’t quite true. “Let’s eat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miracles. Little brother actually wants to eat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who is he to say ‘no’!  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock! I haven’t seen you in a while! I hope everything is okay. xxx Molly</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock, I am sorry to bother you. But, I think you should know that there’s been a seventh. University student. Male. Found with ligature marks. Smiley face on cheek. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock hangs his head when he sees his neglected texts just before he goes to bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” Mycroft is immediately at his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another murder.” Sherlock clenches his fist as he shows Mycroft the text. “This is my fault.” He says quietly. “I should have solved it by now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Lock.” Mycroft sits his brother down on the bed. “Never. You aren’t a machine, brother mine. You are doing what you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not good enough, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice tears at Mycroft’s heart. “I need to do my job. Need to end this scumbag. I have to try.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will speak to her. Harry. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sees the hastily typed and sent message. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why does he have the sensation of dread? Sherlock had solved many murders before he had left England. Although, yes – Sherlock has had his numerous flirtations with death, but this feels different, ominous really – call it a premonition. Good God, he’s the least likely person to give into superstitions, but Mycroft can’t afford to be complacent. The price would be unacceptable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He will help with what he could, and keep a close eye on his brother. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mm… Sherlock burrows in his warm cocoon of quilts. He comes into contact with a delicious source of heat and he curls up against it – feeling something silky brush against his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Mycroft. He’s still in bed with him. Hm. It isn’t quite the weekend yet. Friday? Yes. Arms wrap tightly around him, bringing him closer. God. Friday. Isn’t today where Lestrade is finally going to come over with – ugh. No. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He will not think about that now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The damage is done though; the sensation of dread is beginning to fester somewhere in his belly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh… relax, Lock.” Mycroft’s voice is roughened with sleep. “Everything will be okay.” He soothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock realizes that his hands are clenched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so hateful. That several months in, he is still affected by the trauma of what happened to him in Belgrade. That he is still afraid of potential triggers that would send him spiralling into flashbacks of the worst days of his life. His brother’s hand lightly strokes his bare back and Sherlock sighs – taking deep slow breaths to calm down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Sherlock asks, his words feeling rather feeble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Planning to work from home today, dear.” His brother sits up, throwing the quilt off himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. His brother will be here when he meets with Harry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will do some work in the spare bedroom.” Mycroft adds. “While you meet with Lestrade and Ms. Watson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… will be watching?” Sherlock deduces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you want me to, brother mine. I do have some new experimental equipment to test out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am surprised you haven’t bugged the flat…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trying to give you some space, brother mine.” Mycroft ruffles Sherlock’s curls fondly. “You need it. I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It must have been hard for Mycroft to make that decision. Especially with how broken down Sherlock had felt at times when he’s by himself. At the same time – he’s grateful, as there are times that he doesn’t want Mycroft to see the extent of his suffering. There is only so much his ego could take. Then again, there’s Mrs. Hudson who would inform Mycroft if there is anything of concern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock drags himself up to snuggle against Mycroft, letting the quilt slide off his torso. He’s been sleeping shirtless ever since Valentine’s day – as he had liked to do before the Fall. Sometimes he still feels self-conscious about the mess his back is, but Mycroft is always quick to reassure him. Even spending time lavishing kisses and gentle touches against the scarred skin – although doing so never fails to turn them both into emotional wrecks. He still wears his bottoms though – feeling that he needs the security of the extra outer layer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother instantly embraces him and Sherlock finds himself in Mycroft’s lap. His brother lightly kisses Sherlock’s forehead. On weekends, Sherlock loves to cuddle up with his brother in bed, and doing this on a weekday is truly a treat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I will.” Mycroft then says. “I just want to keep an eye –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. You would rather I don’t deal with this –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would rather be in Northumberland with you, Lock. And have you all to myself.” Mycroft kisses Sherlock’s cheek. “As I did at Christmas.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was a lovely day.” Sherlock says rather wistfully. “The whole trip was amazing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will have more adventures. You and I.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like that. Very much – My.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock closes his eyes and rests his head against his brother’s shoulder, hoping for happier days ahead for the two of them.             </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Via text, Sherlock had asked Lestrade to send Harry into the flat without fanfare and for the copper to stay out. Fortified with a brunch consisting of lobster rolls, a potato skillet and a salad courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock could only hope that the food would stay down. When Harry pushes open the already unlocked door, she looks well put together – yet Sherlock could see the disaster underneath. Her makeup neat and simple, her blonde hair freshly washed but her eyes are the portal into her anguished soul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He’s wasted valuable time. It’s been almost a week since her encounter and assault with this serial rapist and killer, and she’s probably forgotten all the pertinent details, especially if there’s acute stress disorder involved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s evident that she’s cried a ton. Her sleep and appetite has been poor. Her pale skin looks well-scrubbed and pink, reminding Sherlock of the early days where he would shower and wash for what felt like hours. Feeling Petrović’s dirty fingers and secretions all over his body. Feeling like he would never get clean ever again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly he leads Harry to the living room, where there are already two mugs of tea and a plateful of Mrs. Hudson’s freshly baked biscuits laid out on a small table between the pair of armchairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gestures to what used to be John’s old armchair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sits, making herself comfortable on the homey armchair, while Sherlock follows suit, crossing his legs and letting his fingers entwine. He simply watches her – deducing further. She’s moved in with someone recently. After the assault. A wise move. Perhaps her ex? No – she’s sharing a flat with a man. Not John. Someone who is single and living the bachelor life. He resists from raising his eyebrow when he thinks – Lestrade? Probably not. A safe house with a male roommate? Possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So…” Harry finally speaks after the passage of many minutes. “This is the humble abode of the great Sherlock Holmes. I never thought I would be here.” She continues quietly. “Not like this. Not that I expected to come here. Ever. Johnny and I – we aren’t tight. Never had been. Of course… as the elder sibling, I helped him out here and there – but…” She trails off and Sherlock knows it is the alcohol in addition to irreconcilable personality differences that separate the two. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. She didn’t tell her brother about her assault. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That much is clear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Ms. Watson –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the love of god, call me Harry! Fuck’s sake – you make me sound like my mum.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shudders, and Sherlock could see an image of the prim and proper Mrs. Watson that John had rarely alluded to when they had been flatmates. And the alcoholic and homophobe that had been her father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Certainly explains a lot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Harry – tell me about what happened to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry suddenly looks nervous. Her hands seem to shake as she reaches for the mug of tea, threatening to spill its contents on the floor. It takes forever for her to take a gulp of the now lukewarm tea, and she carefully places the mug back on its coaster. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I was four months sober. Decided to go meet new people. God. I am practically forty and –” She swallows. “Was supposed to meet this bird – Iris. She insisted on her favourite bar – in retrospect – not the wisest decision. She… she stood me up. And, fuck it – I thought – might as well get something. So I asked for a mocktail. Then… I drank that and a man came up to me. Younger than me, perhaps – but not that much. Looks like your average everyday Englishman. Charming bloke. He said that I looked a bit down, and he wanted to cheer me up. So he offered to buy me a drink. I told him I was a recovering alcoholic, and he bought me another virgin drink. Then… things got… hazy. Weird. The drink was probably spiked. Oh…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry lets out a hiccup and a little cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock reaches over for some tissues and he hands Harry a generous wad. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blows her nose and wipes at her eyes. Her makeup is starting to run. “Oh. God. I-I don’t think I can go on with – bloody fuck. I should have just left.” Another pause. “This-this doesn’t get easier, no matter how many times I’ve told it. To the police. At the hospital. And… Greg wants me to see a shrink! Oh… fuck’em all. Do you know how many bloody shrinks I’ve seen in my entire lifetime? And my life is still one disaster after another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should though.” Sherlock utters quietly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>To save yourself from my fate. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“It would prevent things from getting worse –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God. Worse? I am already living in Hell! Can’t sleep. Can’t go ten minutes without a cry. Can’t do bloody anything! Fuck. And you don’t seem the fucking type to go to a shrink either!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry seems to look contemplative, before she steels herself. Vehemently she says – causing Sherlock to cringe. “God, men are such pigs! Can’t believe anyone would want to be with any of them. Better to be a lesbian. I can at least help put this one away though. That’s something I can do. Bastard. Bastard coated bastard with bastard filling. My life doesn’t need anymore ruining – thank you very much! I am quite capable of fucking it up myself! Now – where was I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. He talked about all sorts of things. There’s something soothing about his voice – nothing like you would expect a serial killer to sound like. Things about his life. Drove for a rideshare company in his free time. Says he liked meeting new people. Made most of his income by being a plumber. Then he started talking about serial killers. He was fascinated by the current serial killer running around. Called him – stylish! I told him I loved detective stories and that my brother used to have a gig working for a private investigator –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock refrains from making a noise at that. He is a consulting detective, not some ordinary investigator… he is someone the experts go to when they need help. Or at least that’s who he had been before the Fall. Now – he’s a mess. He doesn’t even know if he wants to continue in this vein after this heinous piece of trash is safely locked behind bars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not the time for this internal crisis – he tells himself and he refocuses on Harry’s words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drinks more tea, her hands still trembling. </span>
</p><p><span>“Then-then he smiles, leans in and asks: </span><em><span>Don’t you want to know how the killer did it?</span></em> <em><span>It all seems so morbid, doesn’t it? Our smiley-face killer. I bet he does it for fun. Gets off on it.</span></em><span> I wanted to leave at that point – so many red flags! But, I couldn’t! It is as if I had left my body and I was watching what was happening on a telly! I was screaming at myself to leave, but instead I nod and he goes on. The cocky bastard! </span><em><span>Could you imagine it? Being a victim! How lucky they are to attract the attention of such a fascinating person? </span></em><span>And then he pulls out a black permanent marker, and before I knew it – we were leaving the bar, and oh! I just felt so powerless. It all seemed like a bad dream – and then in the alleyway he-he kissed me! While I was too busy being revolted – what a lousy kisser! – he drew a smiley face on my cheek… My head was pounding and spinning, and I don’t really remember what exactly he said afterwards. But something about always wanting to kiss and fuck a lesbian and that there was no one looking for me tonight. That we were going to have some fun. Oh –”</span></p><p>
  <span>She bursts into tears and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do besides to lean back further into his armchair and pretend that he isn’t here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He himself is tense, gritting his teeth and he could feel his own rapist’s fingers touching him, reaching for places that even Mycroft’s never touched, let alone seen. Fuck. He bloody hates this. Those blunt fingers with its unclean fingernails. The smell of stale smoke on his person. It isn’t hard to deduce that a variation of this had happened to Harry too before she had been able to break free from the stupor of whatever chemicals the man had given her and break free before she could be moved to a secondary location where the man would have snuffed out her life completely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The queasy sensation in his belly is back and Sherlock reaches for some tea to settle it down. He inhales and exhales – trying hard to prevent himself from being dragged down into the infernal depths of memory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God. I am so sorry.” Harry bursts into another round of sobbing. “I-I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is greatly relieved when Harry stands up and runs out of the flat, where Lestrade is waiting for her outside. It isn’t necessary for her to recount the details of her assault.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The case. He reorients himself. A rehash of what John had liked to call ‘A Study in Pink’. Rideshare driver instead of a cabbie. A plumber by trade. That’s how the murderer had been able to pick out such a seemingly random selection of victims and has access to various different places. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh dear. Harry knows too much. And if the murderer is truly as cocky as she had said he had been – Sherlock doesn’t think the murderer would be wise enough to leave her alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A true narcissist!  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, this type of murderer isn’t satisfied with killing and raping in of itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s reached the phase where he wants attention too. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not a wise idea for her to go home at any time. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I thought so too. She’s living in a safe house for now. Was lucky there was space in such short notice. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>John? SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She absolutely refused. She doesn’t want John knowing anything about this. I have some more material for you, so I will swing by tomorrow and slide it underneath your front door. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is another text.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Need time to yourself? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks for a moment before texting back. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Give me five minutes. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sounds good, dearest. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you thinking of, brother mine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looks amusedly at his brother. “Could you not deduce it, dear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sits down next to his brother on the couch and ruffles his curls fondly in response. No, he can’t really tell what Lock is thinking about now. Not at the tail-end of the thinking process anyways. He had worried a little when Harry Watson had gone through the retelling of her tale – with his brother looking like he was going to throw up at any moment, but fortunately Sherlock seemed to have regained his composure when he had finally come downstairs from the spare room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking we ought to go visit Harry’s flat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We?” Mycroft is surprised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock sighs and says. “Well, you know I can’t step out of the place on my own, and even if I could – you would have me followed anyways. If not yourself, perhaps one of your minions. So – what do you say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would say it’s an unconventional activity for a Friday night between people who love each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please? Mycroft – I just want this to be over.” Sherlock nestles his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you please tell your detective inspector then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock gives Mycroft an eye roll even though the smile on his face is a sign that Sherlock isn’t actually annoyed. Mycroft presses a light kiss against his brother’s cheek, always happy for signs of Sherlock’s playful and bratty personality to make itself known. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You could have asked Lestrade for the keys.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft remarks hours later, dressed in a dark grey turtleneck and a pair of dark trousers, as he watches Sherlock attempt to pick the lock. He can’t believe he’s doing this – doing some breaking and entering with his brother. He’s done this sort of thing before in his agent days, but that had been almost a decade ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Boring.” Sherlock says dismissively – dressed in black from head to toe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh come on, let me do it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft takes the lockpicks from Sherlock and with a wiggle, there is an audible click. He pushes open the door, and Sherlock is gazing at him in some sort of awe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn. You are wasted as a government official, My.” Sherlock grins, earning himself a pinch from his brother. “Ouch!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh... my impertinent darling… let’s see if the killer has come here at any point.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft pulls out a small but powerful flashlight, and shines it into the darkened flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s good to know that his old skills are still up to scratch and that he still has tricks up his sleeves that impresses his lover.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock closes the front door and locks it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry keeps a clean flat. Mycroft could tell by the layer of dust that she hasn’t been here for a week. Two open drawers in her bedroom suggest that she had come once to fetch her clothes and some other personal effects at some point. There are no pictures of Harry’s family or friends, but there are plenty of framed prints of animals and flowers scattered about. Mycroft leaves two of his sophisticated bugs in the flat in the off chance that the killer would make a trip here later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one’s been here.” Sherlock observes with disappointment. He shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t know where she lives.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.” Mycroft whispers quietly. “But it’s not exactly hard to find that out –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh. Did you hear that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is the faint but distinct noise of someone playing with the lock of the door. It is similar to what they had been doing earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think it’s –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on – Lock – we can’t be here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft grabs his brother’s hand and heads for the living room where there is a sliding door leading out to a balcony. He fiddles with the lock, before pulling the door open. They head out, and slide the door back into place. It is rather brisk out – the late February wind whistling as they stand to one side of the balcony. There isn’t a fire escape. Sherlock has a crowbar in his backpack, and Mycroft has his umbrella. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could hear his own heart pound against his chest – no, he really doesn’t miss this old adrenaline rush back from his agent days. No, he doesn’t want to confront a serial killer head on. Not without a plan. His brother is looking downward. Harry’s flat is on the fourth floor – so there’s a decent amount of distance between here and the ground. It would be manageable, judging by the structure of the balconies – but Mycroft really has no interest in scaling down buildings in a Spiderman-like fashion in the middle of the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is too old for this kind of nonsense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Sherlock?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you pass me your flashlight?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wordlessly passes the tool to his brother, who immediately shines it down below. There is a small road down below, sandwiched between residential buildings where the waste collectors would come and gather the trash in the early morning. On the road next to the adjacent residential building there is a utility truck. A plumber’s truck – Mycroft could barely make out the words from where he is standing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock pulls out a pair of binoculars from his pack and has a closer look. He then returns the flashlight and puts the binoculars away and on his phone, he writes a quick little note – jotting down the details. Of course, there isn’t anything suspicious about a plumber’s truck hanging about in the middle of the night and it could be a coincidence – but Mycroft knows that the universe is seldom so lazy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Sherlock texts Lestrade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of footsteps from inside could be heard over the wind now – getting louder and louder with every step, and Sherlock and Mycroft squeeze themselves into the corner trying to take up as little space as possible. Mycroft can feel the contours of every brick press against his back. A blind spot from the vantage point indoors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Judging by the footsteps, the intruder is male; someone with bulk – confirming Mycroft’s earlier deductions from looking at Harry’s picture. When they get out of here, Mycroft could have a look at what his bugs had picked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft has his arms wrapped tightly around his brother, who is now shivering from the cold. Sherlock is burrowing himself against him – trying to get warm. He presses a reassuring kiss against his brother’s longish curls while his hand clutches at the handle of his brolly – ready to strike if he needs to. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The footsteps abruptly stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Wet flakes of snow are now being whipped around by the gusts of the wintry wind. He could hear Sherlock’s teeth chattering and then Sherlock muttering something after looking down at his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you say?” Mycroft asks, as loud as he could risk it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The flat above us is vacant. Per Lestrade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Mycroft looks upward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully, Mycroft takes the flashlight and shines it upward. It’s dangerous. It’s wet and slippery, but his brother had already slipped out of his grasp and had climbed up the balcony guardrail, his hands grabbing onto the rail of the fifth floor. Despite his weeks of poor food intake and limited exercise, his brother easily hauls himself upward and swings over the guardrail with all the grace of a primate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well bollocks! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can he even pull this off? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He passes his brolly upward to Sherlock, and puts the flashlight in his mouth. Don’t think. He tells himself as he stands on the narrow edge of the guardrail, grabs the rails of the next story above and with a grunt – he pulls himself up. His arms are aching, but he manages – his brother helping him over the rail. Sherlock’s eyes are sparkling with a glee that Mycroft hadn’t seen – well in years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That wasn’t so bad, wasn’t it?” Sherlock smiles at him, handing him back his brolly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. It has been a while since I’ve done these stunts, little brother.” Mycroft admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock pulls out a pry bar from his bag and starts working on the door. “God. It’s too fucking cold.” He grumbles. “I couldn’t stand it anymore, My. Staying there to freeze.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The latch gives way with a satisfying click and Sherlock slides the door open. He immediately steps into the warmth with relief. Mycroft follows, closing the door behind them. He locks it – as Sherlock hadn’t managed to break the mechanism. The flat’s layout is identical to Harry’s, furnished with cheap furniture that had been meant for show by a real estate agent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What shall we do, brother?” Sherlock looks thoughtful. “Could we go down and surprise him? Lestrade is coming here as we speak.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Absolutely not.” Mycroft crosses his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But… he will leave… My –” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock. Please. That’s a serial killer down there who has killed at least six times without remorse, and I don’t want it to be one of us. Let’s take a look at the bugs then.” Mycroft sits down on the cheap sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother joins him reluctantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft knows that Sherlock is in ‘Case Mode’ which hasn’t happened in a long while. Determined to hunt down the killer with no regard for his own safety. Mycroft pulls out his phone and accesses the feed of one of the bugs he had left downstairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one in the living room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A new specimen fresh from the labs of the MI6. It utilized infrared heat-seeking technologies to allow the bug to fixate on people while capturing both audio and video. It is better used for dark spaces rather than light. When he starts the video, he could see himself. It picks up his conversation with his brother with clarity. When Mycroft walks out of view, the bug switches its attention to Sherlock. It even picks up the sounds of the lock of the front door being picked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not too shabby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there is the sound of Mycroft opening the sliding door to the balcony and them stepping outside. The door closes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft fast-forwards the feed until the silhouette of a man could be seen. The man’s footsteps are quiet. He could make out old worn-out jeans, a navy blue shirt and a toolbox in the man’s hand. The man walks out of view. There is an audible </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunk</span>
  </em>
  <span> as the man puts the tool kit down, and the sound of latches opening. He walks past the camera again, and Mycroft could catch the split-second sight of something sharp in the man’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps… a needle? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is the creak of a door, and then the sound of cursing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man returns back toward the living room. His steps are heavier. He returns back to his tool kit and Mycroft could hear him say. “Fucking bitch. Standing me up again on a Friday night. I will get you. Wherever you are. Ruining my perfect record. None of this ‘the one who got away rubbish’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are a few clunks as the man manipulates the contents of his kit, before walking back into view again. This time with a can in his hand. He walks out of view and starts spray painting something. When the sounds of spraying stops, the man is breathing hard. There is the sound of a zipper being undone and the unmistakable sound of wanking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, you sweet lesbian tart. Your pussy was tight around my cock. Like a virgin. Ha. Perhaps you were. In the way that matters. Your first real dick hm. So fucking hot. Maybe I’ve straightened you out.” The man laughs. “I will have you again, before I finish you. Then have another round for afters.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is more crude chuckling and lewd words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is shaking like a leaf beside Mycroft, trying to tune out the words. Oh god. Fuck. He hadn’t been paying attention to his brother. Mycroft pauses the video – cutting the disgusting man off mid-sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother doesn’t answer him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock. Please. You are here. With me. You are safe. Dearest mine.” Mycroft whispers, trying to orient his brother back. “I should have –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, My, we had to.” Sherlock buries his face in Mycroft’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother is crying, and Mycroft wraps his arm around his brother, gently soothing him – stroking his back. He presses gentle kisses against his Sherlock’s tear-streaked face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His poor Lock is trying his best and it is killing Mycroft inside to watch him try. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, Sherlock’s phone vibrates. Mycroft fishes it out of his brother’s pocket as his brother is still clinging onto him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Suspect is gone from the flat. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spray paint on the wall. Otherwise the place looks intact from my last visit. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is an attachment – a photo of the spray paint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a shade of crimson against Harry’s whitewashed walls.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can run. You can hide. Harry. But I will find you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is the familiar smiley face sprayed below the words. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We are upstairs. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t come up until we leave. My brother… MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Say no more. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you, Detective Inspector. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock, darling. Do you want to get out of here?” Mycroft gently combs through his lover’s curls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Home?” Mycroft asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we… go somewhere?” Sherlock murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anywhere. But here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want – Lock. Come on, let’s get out of here before Lestrade’s men come up here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft helps his brother up. He grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table and tenderly dabs at Sherlock’s face before directing him out the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They are high, high up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the glass that make up the walls, the skies are still dark and lights of a still-slumbering London glow below them. As much as London would like to think it is, it’s not quite what people call a ‘24-hour city’. Not yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is pressed up against his brother, starting to feel sleepy from their visit to Harry’s in the wee hours of the night. The adrenaline is starting to leave his system. They had taken a quiet nook in the corner of the chic dining room –  one of the few places in London that is truly open all day long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps we should have gone home.” Mycroft murmurs, his arm securely wrapped around Sherlock’s torso. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dun wanna.” Sherlock says with an air of petulance, causing his brother to chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He just wants to forget what he had heard. What had gone inside his head when the serial killer had uttered his repulsive soliloquy. Something in that man’s demeanor and his voice had reminded him so much of being back there that he had been terrified for a few brief minutes that his rapist – yes, that man doesn’t deserve to have his name remembered – hadn’t died at the hands of Mycroft’s agents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. How could he ever do his job after this? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If any reminder of those dark times is enough to make him freeze? To make him sob like a frightened schoolgirl? For the love of god – he can’t even leave the flat on his own! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once upon a time, he had been the predator cruising about, cleaning the streets of London of such rubbish. Of course, he had treated it as a game then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So sure of his own genius. Confident. So seemingly invincible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It depresses him. Greatly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft’s voice gently shakes him out of his grim thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock glances upwards and sees that big brother had dealt some </span>
  <em>
    <span>Uno </span>
  </em>
  <span>cards. His hand immediately goes to swipe them off the table, and he rearranges the brightly coloured yet battered cards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the dim </span>
  <em>
    <span>romantic </span>
  </em>
  <span>lighting typical of such fancy restaurants, he catches his brother’s eye and Mycroft’s lips curve into a tiny affectionate smile. He lazily throws down one of his green cards, starting the calming – but rapid patter of cards hitting the table, punctuated by sighs and quietly uttered curses whenever a +4, or a +2 or an inopportune colour-change card appears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, two tumblerfuls of</span>
  <em>
    <span> Old-Fashioned</span>
  </em>
  <span> get dropped off by a waitress who gives them an indulgent look before disappearing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alcohol has never been Sherlock’s strong suit. He finds himself gradually lulled into a hazy state of mind, feeling both warm and loved as Mycroft starts feeding him heavenly bites of duck confit and waffle, sweetened by real maple syrup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside them, the rays of the sun begin to shine over the city. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t drop me!” Sherlock grins teasingly at his brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not.” Mycroft dismisses, before he gradually raises Sherlock into the air with his legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a lovely sight to have Sherlock above him, dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of tight yoga pants. His brother’s hands are gripping his, and it is a surprisingly tiring position to hold – even though Mycroft is the one lying on the yoga mat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is his first time doing ‘partner yoga’ with his brother. Or any form of yoga ever – really. But if it allows him to watch his brother pose in suggestive positions in form-fitting clothes, or better yet – permit him to touch and interact with Sherlock, Mycroft is one-hundred percent down for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft lowers his brother a bit, and Sherlock tumbles onto his body – temporarily knocking the breath out of him. Sherlock doesn’t complain, instead wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s naked torso. He nuzzles his face against Mycroft’s furry chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. His brother is so damned adorable. Precious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had gone home after watching the sunrise and indulging in the ‘Full Elvis’ for a decadent breakfast treat. Falling into Sherlock’s luxurious bed after taking quick showers, they had slept until the mid-afternoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Sherlock had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft had gotten up earlier and spent his time to finish watching the feeds from the bugs planted in Harry’s flat. The man hadn’t actually ejaculated in the flat, so there wouldn’t be any easy DNA to acquire. Taking the information from Sherlock’s phone, he had done some quick research about their suspect plumber using the information his brother had gleaned from the vehicle that had been parked downstairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a still from the bug he had strategically planted near the front door of Harry’s flat – for it had captured part of the serial killer’s face. The face had been grey and the details somewhat blurred – but he had been able to compare it with an image of the plumber he had found with a cursory Google search. Seemed similar enough. Of course, he had taken his laptop and ran the plumber’s name through his databases. It had come up with nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man had lived a seemingly clean life beforehand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had texted the detective inspector with deductions, the still of the rapist-killer and instructions on how to verify and acquire legal evidence for the prosecution. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is looking at him now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did everything.” He remarks, having deduced Mycroft’s thoughts. It isn’t a question. His tone is rather melancholic. “Told Lestrade what to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Sherlock-of-before-the-Fall would have been royally pissed off if Mycroft had hijacked his exciting case like that, but this version isn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is even relief in Sherlock’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sits up on the mat. His brother readily climbs into his lap and curls up against Mycroft’s body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did. Yes. God –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must think I am useless.” Sherlock murmurs, his words listless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No –” Mycroft immediately refutes. “Never. I wanted to spare you the pain. Brother – look at me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock does. Reluctantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. His brother looks so vulnerable. And so defeated. It’s not a look that Mycroft ever wants to see on his lover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t useless. Brother mine. God. You’ve come such a long way. It’s going to take time, Lock. You know that.” Mycroft bestows a short kiss against the corner of Sherlock’s lips. “And it’s alright, you know. To ask for help –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Sherlock says quietly, letting his hand rest on Mycroft’s chest. His fingers idly comb through the fur. “It’s just that – I don’t think I want to continue doing this. I realized that… when we were in the vacant flat.” He lets out a deep sigh. “I thought – you know, that I just needed to get back into the saddle. Back into the rhythm of things. It’s evident now that that’s not the problem. I wouldn’t mind doing deductions from home, brother mine –” He sighs once more, slumping against Mycroft. “It just… feels like losing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not losing. We change, little brother. It’s a fact of life. But. I will always be here. No matter what you choose to do with life.” Mycroft tenderly brings his brother closer to him, catching his lips in another kiss. This time with a bit more need. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles at him slightly when they break apart. “Not all change is bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have my Mycie.” Sherlock’s voice is sweet in a way Mycroft has never heard it. “And I would never trade you for –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is the sound of the door knocker downstairs. Mycroft can hear the surprised voice of Mrs. Hudson exclaiming out loud for their benefit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John! It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Do you want to see him, Lock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft gives Sherlock a concerned look. His arms are still holding him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All Sherlock wanted to do is to bury his face in Mycroft’s chest fur. To enjoy the rest of the afternoon with his lover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hasn’t made any effort to communicate with him since the end of that terrorist bombing plot. God. That feels like a lifetime ago. Before Sherlock had found himself tormented by the ghosts of the trauma he had experienced back in Serbia. His former best friend had refused to listen to any of Sherlock’s attempts to explain himself for the deceit that he had to play. John had dismissed all his sacrifices as a lark. It’s not like he had wanted to jump off Bart’s and dismantle an entire criminal network. Alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That had hurt. It had hurt far more than the physical pain John had inflicted on him that night. Although he had to admit that his tact had been lacking when he had surprised both Mary and John at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Landmark.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Stupid and naive. That’s what he had been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking that everything could just go back to how it had been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really.” Sherlock admits. “Would you…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft kisses his cheek just as they hear John’s footsteps start making their way up the seventeen steps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go. Go into your bedroom. I will deal with him, Lock.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you are partially – naked…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Throw me your dressing gown.” Mycroft suggests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock gets up and does what he is told. He scampers into his bedroom, tosses his luxurious silky dressing gown in the direction of his brother and shuts the door behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. He doesn’t want to face John. Not like this. He could barely tolerate Lestrade right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles when he finds his laptop on the nightstand and decides to distract himself with some </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tetris.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He has no desire to eavesdrop and he hopes John wouldn’t give Mycroft a hard time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is some evidence out there that suggests that the game could reduce intrusive flashbacks and prevent PTSD induced by trauma, although he knows that for him – it’s too late. Alas, it couldn’t hurt. He logs into </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tetris Friends</span>
  </em>
  <span> and starts destroying people in competitive 2-player mode. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hullo, Dr. Watson. Long time no see. To what do I owe this pleasure?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft opens the door after he had let the good doctor knock on it for a minute or two. He keeps his tone neutral, although the disdain cuts through it – he would much rather be making out with his brother right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Watson gawks at him. Obviously Mycroft had been the last person he had been expecting to see behind the door of Sherlock’s flat. Clad in pyjama bottoms and in one of his brother’s comfortable dressing gowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man has put on weight since Mycroft had seen him last. A happy relationship with Miss Morstan… for the most part. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is Sherlock? And why… are you here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock isn’t here right now, Dr. Watson. And – I’ve been living here for awhile –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You…?” If Dr. Watson’s jaw could drop further, it would have. “Why would you do that? You… you were the one who told all those lies to the papers! Before…. Before he jumped! He… hates your guts!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft snorts. “It was all part of the plan, Dr. Watson. Moriarty is dead. And contrary to your belief, my brother does not hate my guts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, Sherlock is rather partial to his belly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well.” Dr. Watson has that familiar stubborn look on his face. “I need to see him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now. This is fascinating. Why now? And not a few months ago? Is this about Harry? His sister? No. It’s safe to say that Dr. Watson has no idea about the woe that had befallen his only sibling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? You haven’t bothered to show up since October. You ignored my brother’s texts. You didn’t even –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t…” Dr. Watson sighs. “He treats everything like a big joke. A laugh! Do you know how much I’ve suffered during the last few years?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft grits his teeth and unclenches a fist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. It’s all about him. Dr. Watson. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man knows nothing about what had happened to Sherlock over the last few years. The pain, the suffering – the scars etched on Sherlock’s flesh and soul. The sacrifices he had made for </span>
  <em>
    <span>them.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Making light of things, Mycroft is sure, had been one of Sherlock’s many coping mechanisms. It’s strange though. Dr. Watson hasn’t completely forgiven his brother, but he appears to be here in the hopes of rekindling a relationship… oh! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fiancée put him up to this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s her name again? Mary Morstan. That’s what she’s calling herself these days. Mycroft had found it highly amusing that one of Moriarty’s paid killers had fallen in love with Dr. Watson and appears to be embarking on the straight and narrow path of life. Here is a woman that has killed more people than that lousy serial killer currently plaguing London. It hadn’t been his place to interfere had Ms. Morstan kept a low-profile, but now she’s interested in his brother… Hm. This warrants a closer look. That is for certain.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But anyways. I want to see him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Watson stands up straight. Ever the fearless soldier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. I am afraid he doesn’t want to see you.” Mycroft says, relishing the words. “It’s obvious that you haven’t forgiven him –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why in bloody fuck do you care? Mycroft! Of course Sherlock wants to see me. You are lying. He’s here in this flat – isn’t he?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft is tiring of this silly delusional man who is now trying to step around him. Now the doctor seems to be thinking that he’s holding Sherlock hostage. “My brother was seriously traumatized during his </span>
  <em>
    <span>mission</span>
  </em>
  <span> during his fake death. A fact that you would have learned had you ever let him explain yourself. I will not have you –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chirp of a phone interrupts Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor pulls it out and reads the text. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. Have it your way.” The doctor turns around with a displeased expression and heads out without further argument. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Dr. Watson exits the flat door – he yells. “Sherlock – I am sorry! Please give me another chance.” And as an afterthought, he pulls out an envelope and hands it to Mycroft before he finally departs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock had heard the voices getting louder outside his bedroom door. Considering Mycroft’s and John’s years of animosity, he isn’t surprised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To defuse John, he had texted.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mycroft is right, John. Please go. I can’t deal with this right now. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, his bedroom door creaks open, and Mycroft steps in. There’s a slightly pinched look on his brother’s face. Annoyance. It disappears when Mycroft sits down on the bed. There is a creamy envelope made out of some expensive paper in his brother’s hand, complete with a golden seal. Sherlock’s name is written in gilt calligraphy on one side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So he is getting married.” Sherlock deduces tonelessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was a real proposal that you interrupted, Lock.” Mycroft hands him the envelope. “When you met them at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Landmark.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock takes it, breaking the seal. He pulls out the card with its marble-patterned card, complete with a golden </span>
  <em>
    <span>Save the Date: Dr John Watson &amp; Mrs Mary Morstan.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There is another smaller card which has space for his response. And offers the allowance of a plus-one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A summer wedding.” Sherlock idly places everything back down on the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock doesn’t know what to feel. It feels like the end of an era. A definitive end to Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson – Consulting Detective and Blogger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>True. That had ended when Moriarty had killed himself and forced Sherlock to leap. But this is the death knell. And he has had months to come to terms that things are different now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if John and he mend their relationship, it would never be the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you…” Sherlock turns to look at his brother, who seems to be pondering serious thoughts of his own. “Come with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft sighs. Deeply. There is a genuine expression of pain on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good god. His brother hates these festivities more than he does. He just hides it better. Sherlock is glad his brother seems to be comfortable enough to show what he really feels. Well at times. Sherlock knows that Mycroft has been trying to be strong for him, but sometimes Sherlock sees the cracks in the armour and he wisely keeps his observations to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to. If you don’t want to –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock.” Mycroft scoots closer, letting his arm wrap possessively against him. His breath is hot against his ear. “It’s not because I dislike these festivities. Well. Actually – I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock snorts at that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s… because I can’t be with you – you know – in the way that I like –” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t think that he’s ever heard Mycroft in such an inarticulate state. But of course, his brother is right. They would have to hide the true nature of their relationship. These days, aside from Lestrade – Sherlock has no one to hide their relationship from. He would have to hide this from John if his old flatmate does come back into his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would kill him, but this is a necessity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is </span>
  <em>
    <span>essential.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He can’t lose him. He can’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft…” Sherlock says gently, observing that big brother is having a fit of sentimentality. “Just say whatever is on your mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s unfair.” Mycroft’s arm only grips him tighter. The words come out in a rush. Bitterly. “That I can go and watch a former assassin and your dear old flatmate tie the knot and bask in domestic felicity and not ever be able to kiss the one I love without worrying that someone will see us. Let alone embark on holy matrimony…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon realizing the magnitude of what had escaped his loose lips, Mycroft abruptly closes his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh God. This is Christmas. The Christmas of Christmases. Mycroft wants to marry him! Him! With all his scars and baggage. The former consulting detective crippled from his misadventures in Belgrade. A tear escapes from Sherlock’s eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could picture it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft and himself at the altar. Dressed up to the nines. His Mycroft watching him reverently as he does when he thinks Sherlock isn’t paying attention to him as the officiant goes through the verbal excess required to marry them off. Vows. And then finally: </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘You may kiss your husband.’. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Their lips would meet. Mycroft would kiss him thoroughly but with his characteristic tenderness. But it could never be. A coldness settles within him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Lock.” Mycroft takes Sherlock’s hand in his. “Oh darling love.” His voice had grown deadly quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is nothing his brother could say to make this kind of agony go away. Is there even a word for this kind of pain? A grief for a dream that had never had a chance to take flight? This isn’t a new sort of pain; people have been dealing with forbidden love for centuries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But… fuck… it hurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a slow measured breath as he had been doing whenever he had felt the onset of a panic attack, or an incoming flashback. Positives. His brother loves him to the point where he wants to be bound with him… forever. That had always been Sherlock’s greatest concern, no matter how often Mycroft had reassured him that he wasn’t going anywhere. Neither of them had been interested in being scrutinized by the public eye. He inhales again, turning toward his brother – letting Mycroft envelop his arms around him in a proper hug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their foreheads meet as Sherlock exhales. No. He would be happy (he thinks) with the knowledge that Mycroft would want to marry him if it is feasible over time. Mycroft initiates another kiss, his lips gently nibbling at Sherlock’s while their noses brush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their love is precious in that way. In that they could only share it with the people they have the utmost faith in. That they know how lucky the everyday common goldfish have it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s something to cherish and protect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides… it’s them. When ever had either of them taken the easy path in life? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock takes control of the kiss, nipping gently – inducing Mycroft to gasp, before cunningly slipping his tongue into his brother’s open mouth, letting their tongues meet. A need that Sherlock had never felt before seems to consume him – and he feels the urge to devour his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mine.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes Mycroft down onto the bed. Although surprised at Sherlock’s newfound assertiveness in bed, his brother goes down willingly. Just as Mycroft’s head hits one of their pillows, Sherlock lets his cheek brush against Mycroft’s own, and he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, Mycroft. I would…” He swallows, opting to tease the curve of Mycroft’s ear – causing his brother shiver. “Marry you if I could too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>God. His Lockie. Looking at him like that. Like he’s the most desirable person that he’s ever laid his eyes on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is very aware of his physical imperfections, but his brother never seemed to be bothered by them since they have started their relationship. He’s regretful that he had let a topic that had given him much pain over the last week or so bother his brother – who seems to be just as affected as he had been. Fuck, he should know better than to indulge in fantasies that could never come to fruition, but alas – even he couldn’t resist taking a nibble out of such a forbidden yet bittersweet fruit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But yet – this knowledge seems to have sparked something in his Lock, and he allows himself to be feasted upon. Enjoying Sherlock taking the time to explore his hirsute body after his brother had untied the dressing gown. Moaning as his fingers, tongue and lips find all his sensitive spots. His ear. That particular spot on his neck. His nipples. His brother’s tongue teasingly swirling, before sucking at them each in turn causing Mycroft’s cock to throb beneath the cottony confines of his boxers. And his hands tenderly caressing the flabby flesh of his belly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And god. Lock saying that he wanted it too. Marriage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft practically whines when Sherlock skips his cock after pulling down the boxers and pyjama bottoms. His brother only chuckles (the brat is clearly back) and proceeds to lick his way down, starting with Mycroft’s inner thigh. Fuck. He’s never had anyone explore him so thoroughly, and the indecent moan that escapes him when Sherlock licks at the back of his knee catches him off guard. His brother continues his journey, sliding his hands down his leg and actually massages his foot. Sherlock hums contentedly as he pays the same amount of attention to Mycroft’s other limb. Mycroft finds himself watching, rapt at the sight of Sherlock licking and kissing his way back up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It occurred to me, brother dear, that I’ve never had a real chance of surveying what’s mine. Well, at least not this thoroughly.” Sherlock smiles up at him. He bends down to press more worshipful kisses against Mycroft’s abdomen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are a bloody tease.” Mycroft longs to touch his brother, but he knows that isn’t what Sherlock wants from him right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I assure you, Mycroft, that I can be worse.” Sherlock winks at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother’s hands rest upon his flat t-shirt clad abdomen and with a painful slowness, Sherlock pulls off his shirt – revealing smooth alabaster flesh. And of course, his glorious abdominals. God. Does Sherlock know how fucking hot he is? It makes Mycroft happy that his brother is completely comfortable being shirtless around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw practically drops when Sherlock gives his hips a little seductive wiggle before sliding up those tight yoga bottoms that left nothing to the imagination and his own pants off. His brother’s cock – lovely and long (but not as thick as his) is jutting upwards. Its pale flesh reddened by blood. This is the first time Mycroft has seen his brother’s prick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother drops to the bed to lie beside Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong, Lock?” Mycroft is confused at the action.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not sure how to proceed.” Sherlock admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you like, Lock. Anything.” Mycroft gently wraps his arm around his brother. “I would do anything for you, you know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even…” Sherlock has trouble saying what he wants to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft knows what his brother is thinking. “Yes. You can do that too. I would happily bottom for you, Lock. If that is what you want.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Sherlock’s eyes brighten. “I always thought –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For you, anything.” Mycroft kisses Sherlock’s cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps another time.” Sherlock smiles at him. “I don’t think either of us will last.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Mycroft agrees. He then adds firmly. “Don’t listen to what that imbecile said to you back in Serbia. There’s no shame –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. Mycroft.” Sherlock sighs when Mycroft’s hand rests on his hip and begins to stroke his thigh. “But knowing and feeling are two different things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I?” Mycroft looks down toward Sherlock’s bobbing cock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nods, and Mycroft gently encircles his hand around his brother’s shaft, feeling its heft. Slowly, he strokes, gradually covering more and more of the lovely prick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How does it feel, Lock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Sherlock says breathily. “Really good.” He shakes as Mycroft reaches the glans, and rubs his thumb over the slit – smearing the precum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you want to cum?” Mycroft asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Together?” Sherlock replies rather tentatively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shyness tugs at Mycroft’s heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could someone be so confident one moment, and be like this the next? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, his old Sherlock – before he had been caught and tormented in Serbia, had been like that. So invincible. So sure of himself. And Mycroft knows how frustrating this has all been for his brother who would feel like his old self for brief moments before reality comes crashing back down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can do that.” Mycroft scoots closer to his brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both gasp when their pricks meet – flesh to flesh – for the first time. Collecting both their precum, Mycroft uses it to ease their way as they both fuck into his fist. Sherlock uses his arms to hold on to Mycroft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm… My – this feels so good. Having your cock against mine. I’ve been missing out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock – it takes time to work your way through these things.” Mycroft reassures him. “You are doing so well, darling mine. Don’t second guess yourself around me, little brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God. More.” Sherlock inhales noisily. “I need you, Mycroft. I just… just don’t want to fuck this up. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is on the verge of tears again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh… brother mine. Let it happen.” Mycroft cradles his brother to his chest. “God. Lock. You have always been my dearest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even when I was… awful to you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiles sadly at his brother. His fist continues to frig their cocks at the rapid steady pace that they both needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always.” He reiterates just as Sherlock’s hips start to buck uncontrollably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an unintelligible cry, Sherlock cums – and Mycroft makes sure he catches every detail of his Sherlock succumbing to his pleasure. He follows almost a minute later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother had let go literally, hiding his tears by burying his face against Mycroft’s chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh… everything will be okay, Lock.” Mycroft lets both his arms curl around his brother, ignoring the sticky mess gluing them both together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You mind if I come in, Sherlock? GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you have a new case? SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, same case. Just wanted to give you an update. And of course, to pick your brain. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I thought Mycroft had given everything you needed. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Things aren’t adding up. GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fine. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock sighs as he puts down his phone on the coffee table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could hear Lestrade use the door knocker downstairs and Mrs. Hudson hurrying out of her flat to let him in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Monday. Mycroft had long gone to work, and Sherlock had been looking forward to a quiet day with his sketchbook, using some watercolours and pencil crayons that Mrs. Hudson had found in her flat just yesterday from long ago. He had embarked on painting a picture of Mycroft, using a selfie that they had taken together for reference during their Christmas holidays.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Sherlock trudges his way to the door. Why can’t this case be done and dusted already? Of course, back in the old days, he would have been delighted with its complexity, but now… he just wants to be done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lestrade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looks at the graying copper. It’s obvious that Lestrade hasn’t been sleeping well over the last week or so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade looks at him warily, as if trying to assess how much Sherlock could handle today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tea?” Sherlock suggests, feeling uncomfortable with the scrutiny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell, that sounds marvellous. Cheers.” Lestrade drops like a sack of potatoes on the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock takes him time going into the kitchen. It’s kind of soothing, hunting down the chai tea bags that Mycroft had bought the other day. He sets the kettle up with tap water, before proceeding to search for the mugs and some sweet calories to complement the chai. He finds a box of unexpired chocolate hobnobs. Eventually he brings everything to the living room, wondering what news Lestrade had come to bring. No one had been raped or killed since their last communication, he is certain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his gut tells him that this case is far from over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits in his armchair, just as Lestrade picks up his mug of tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what did you find?” Sherlock figures it is best to rip off the bandaid sooner rather than later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your brother. He sent me the name of the plumbing company, the license plate of the vehicle, a rather pixelated image of the man who owns the business and a name. A Robert Siward. We also have an image of the intruder in Harry’s flat. They look rather similar, but it’s difficult to say for certain. So, Donovan and I went on Sunday to Siward’s house in Bexley. We knocked on the door and we were met by Siward’s ex-wife. They are divorced, but have opted to split the house in half, quite literally. Erica Siward is her name. She said that Siward hasn’t been home in a few weeks. She thought that Siward went to go see family in Wales, but she wasn’t a hundred percent sure. They don’t communicate much these days. We acquired contact information for the rest of Siward’s family, called them all, and they said that they hadn’t seen Siward at all. We got a warrant and went back to the house. We searched through the entire place. Found nothing. It is evident that the Siward’s half of the house hasn’t been lived in for a week or two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is the truck then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not anywhere in the neighbourhood. We did a search before we left yesterday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we better find it then. Did you run his financial information?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. We found purchases of some interesting things on his credit. Industrial markers. Duct tape. Bleach. Condoms. Knives. Amongst other things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nods. “That seems definitive then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade says dubiously. “Perhaps. Donovan is still searching for the blasted truck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did Ms. Siward explain why she and Siward split?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What has that got to do with anything?” Lestrade asks, somewhat bewildered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just curious.” Sherlock says nonchalantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade offers a second-hand character study. “By her account, Siward was an amicable man. Liked to dance. Travel. Had a good relationship with his parents. Worked hard and brought in the dough. No siblings. They parted on good terms. Ms. Siward said that she found out a few months back that she was infertile due to a childhood illness, and Siward really wanted children, so she let him go. A bit sad, really. He fought for her for a bit, but eventually relented.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t really add up.” Sherlock muses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. But serial killers are capable of living normal lives.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, why did you say things aren’t adding up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” Lestrade muses. “It is too easy. You know. Considering how meticulous the killer has been since the beginning. And the credit information only covers purchases up to the beginning of the month –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He could have used cold hard cash to pay for everything before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are playing the devil’s advocate now, aren’t you?” Lestrade smiles somewhat, and then sighs, helping himself to a couple of hobnobs. “You have that look about you… the one that tells me you know something, but you ain’t sharing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have my suspicions, but no evidence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then let’s have it. Sherlock. We’ve worked together for a long time now, and I’ve always trusted you. Well –” Lestrade winces, evidently remembering the events before the ‘Leap Off Bart’s’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Lestrade. The past is the past.” Sherlock then offers his conjecture. “No. Personally, I’d say Robert Siward isn’t your killer. He’s a victim. One of those folks who could go missing for weeks on end, and no one would really know that he is gone.” His tone is listless knowing that what he had just said is in all likelihood the truth. “This killer is too perfect. I have a hunch that this killer has been doing this long before the smiley faces have started showing up, but he’s getting bored. I personally think mistakes will be made eventually as he gets further into the limelight, but I would prefer that we find him before someone else gets hurt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade’s phone starts ringing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anthea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir. I have managed to enter the server.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?” Mycroft clasps his hands together, fighting the urge to fidget. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve managed to copy over all of the contents from the server into a few harddrives. Some of it is quite enlightening. I think you can run the world with the staggering amount of dirt that I’ve acquired.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not one to joke, Anthea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I am not, Sir. I am completely serious. At all times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea ignores the sarcasm and pushes forward. “I also deleted a video.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From the server itself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that wise?” Mycroft is bewildered, but he waits patiently for an explanation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a video of Sherlock and you. There’s nothing too explicit in it. It features the both of you in what looks like an art gallery. You were talking to him. Calming him down with his hands in yours. And just before you two stood up, you kissed him on the cheek. I think our friend was trying to gather up some evidence to build himself a case. But, no worries, Sir. I took the liberty of replacing the video with another of Prince Andrew. I am sure he will find it a welcome recompense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anthea…” Mycroft sighs. Great. More work for the MI5 then. Sir Edwin will be thrilled. “But thank you for removing it from the server.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chances are that it might be one of several copies, but it’s nothing that would cause the two of them to flee England under false identities anytime soon. But then, Anthea is a thorough person with cunning skill, and may have cleaned out more than just the server. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s something else that I’d noticed on my cursory glance of the data. Magnussen has been compiling a video containing information about a woman. Her greatest hits, one could say. Her name was Rosamund Mary. An –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ex-assassin. I know. These days she goes by Miss Mary Morstan, Registered Nurse.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am predicting with great certainty that she will be Magnussen’s next target. If he hasn’t already started his usual scheme.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. He will get her under his thumb, to get at her fiancé. He would then hope that he will have Sherlock under his power, and through him – me. All very boring as my brother would say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What ever shall we do, Sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For now… Nothing. We will watch. And we will wait. It’s a jungle out there, Anthea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good, Sir. I will sort out the rest of the information I’ve acquired while the Laws of the Jungle exert themselves.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anthea stands up with all the potential energy of a viper ready to strike, gives a cheeky little salute and strides out of the office. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mycroft does not meet Sherlock at the door of Baker Street when he arrives ‘home’. Instead, the scent of heavenly pizza wafts in the air. Did Sherlock pick up a new hobby? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. After locking the door behind him, he follows the enticing scent to the kitchen. Someone’s been here today. No, scratch that – two people have visited Baker Street since he had left it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of them certainly was Lestrade, but who was the other? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are two sizable pizza boxes and two smaller boxes sitting on the kitchen table. The boxes bear the name of a notable place that specializes in New York style pizza. The second visitor must have brought it then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not Dr. Watson. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaims, rushing to him happily. “You are home!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother looks vibrant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there is clearly an undercurrent of something within him. Sherlock rushes over to hug and kiss him, before initiating his routine of removing Mycroft’s three-piece suit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who brought the pizza?” Mycroft asks curiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Raz. One of my Homeless Network. I asked him to come by. Sorry I didn’t inform you, Mycie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright.” Mycroft smiles at him. It’s one step forward. That Sherlock is willing to invite another person over to his humble abode. “It’s a big step.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had to. That case. Our lead. It led to another dead end, My.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is both curious and disappointed. Was all that work on Friday for naught? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked Raz to examine the spray paint used by our killer. He insisted on bringing food, so I asked him to grab some pizza. It’s been awhile since we’ve had any.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What ever happened to our plumber?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“False identity, Mycroft. Our plumber, Mr. Robert Siward, was found today. Dead. It’s evident that he’s been dead for quite a while, judging by the photos Anderson sent me. His body was found in the back of his truck. In a body bag. Our killer looks rather like him in appearance, so he has assumed his identity for a bit. No smiley face found on his person. But that’s the beauty of it, I guess. The randomness of it all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shame. So I suppose you asked your graffiti-boy to identify the type of spray paint our killer has been using?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he’s using a special mix of paint. It’s not a mainstream mixture. If anyone can identify where the killer got his hand on the can, it’s Raz.” Sherlock winces a bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been almost embarrassing, how nervous Sherlock had been while waiting for his old contact’s arrival. Raz had been excited to see him alive. He had wanted to give Sherlock a hug when they had met, but Sherlock had stepped away and apologized. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the man had understood immediately. Life is rough. Wisely, the artist did not mention anything about Sherlock’s reaction, and went straight to the topic at hand. Sherlock had given him his task, shown him the pictures of the spray paint, offered money – which was promptly refused before Raz had left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things were good for Raz, Sherlock could tell. The man has been busy with commissions and has earned a pretty penny since Sherlock had leapt. Even had gotten a boyfriend (his sexuality had been the main reason why he had been forced out into the streets in the first place by his traditionalist Muslim family). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s eat then, Lock.” Mycroft says quickly. “My brave brave boy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you have something to tell me too.” Sherlock deduces shrewdly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something going on with Mycroft these days, and he wants to know what.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Later. Lock. I promise I will tell you everything with time. Are we not partners in all things?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They share a besotted look, before Mycroft takes his Lock into his arms and kisses him again. God. It’s nice to see Sherlock back to an approximation of his old self. Minus the nastiness towards him, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Course we are, My. I love you.” Sherlock says sweetly, and Mycroft cannot help but to kiss him again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pizza is delicious. With fresh toppings such as artichoke hearts, green olives, mozzarella, pepperoni slices and bacon. Sherlock finds himself wolfing slice after slice down, mixing his mouthfuls with some sweet potato fries and slices of hearty garlic bread. Mycroft rolls his eyes at him when he licks at his oily fingers, but Sherlock is only content to lie back against both the back of the couch and Mycroft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a delightful way to finish the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you paint this, Lock?” Mycroft inquires, glancing at the sketchbook with a partially finished watercolour that is left open near the edge of the coffee table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Until I got interrupted by Lestrade.” Sherlock mumbles, feeling both sated and sleepy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are painting me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got a problem with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I am just… surprised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are a fascinating subject, Mycie.” Sherlock starts reaching over for his brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you wipe those fingers, Lock?” Mycroft grabs his wrist before Sherlock could touch him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Sherlock’s time to roll his eyes. “Course I did, Daddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good Lord, Lock. Please don’t call me that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles angelically. He grabs a wet-wipe packet lying next to the open pizza box, rips it open and wipes his fingers in an exaggerated fashion, before leaning over to kiss his brother – tasting the mix of pizza and beer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s arm goes around him and brings him close. Sherlock closes his eyes for a few blissful moments, enjoying the coziness and comfort between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He then remembers. “So then, Mycie – tell me! Tell me what you’ve been up to!” He turns to look at his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft hadn’t really planned on telling his brother about Magnussen, but maybe he should. It appears that a lack of communication between the two of them had always seemed to lead to some great disaster at the end of the day. Maybe it is time to change their old ways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before he could say another word, he could hear the sound of the door knocker downstairs. They could hear Mrs. Hudson scurrying about downstairs, before finally making it to the front door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hear a woman’s voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Hudson, I presume? A pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard lots from my fiancée.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What is she doing here?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The question is asked silently between the both of them with their eyes as they turn to look at each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s related to what I wanted to tell you, Lock.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft gently ruffles Sherlock’s curls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it related to the fact that you let slip the other day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh, Lock, we need a plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about I go take a shower, and you deal with it? Please?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock has no desire to meet another person outside his usual circles. Especially another person who has lived a life of violence. The energetic Raz had been plenty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s had enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Course, darling. Shall I meet you in bed afterwards?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Sherlock leaps off the couch and makes a run for his room, just as Miss Morstan finally escapes Mrs Hudson’s nosy inquiries. Her heels click noisily against the steps, as Mycroft puts what’s left of his clothes to rights – preparing for an unexpected post-prandial battle. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hm. Had half of this chapter written a while back, just went back to it :) <br/>Hope you guys enjoyed, and comments and kudos are always appreciated! Thank you for all your support :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Mr Holmes, a pleasure to meet you at last. John has told me all about you.” Miss Morstan offers her hand, and Mycroft shakes it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The pleasure is mine. How may I help you?” Mycroft keeps his tone neutral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the back of his mind, he wonders if she still carries a gun in her designer purse. As she had done in the old days. It’s always hard to believe that a leopard could change her spots so thoroughly. From the life of an assassin to a nurse engaged to the local locum doc. It’s alarmingly cliché. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard to deduce her. She wears a mask. The mask of a gentlewoman. She had gone to work today at the clinic. Lots of stuffy noses and diabetics who aren’t on top of their blood sugars. The usual fodder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there’s a wariness in the way she holds herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is Sherlock in? I just wanted to speak with him. Make sure that he knows that John is interested in reconciling with him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock has had a long day. He does not wish to see anyone at this time, Miss Morstan. And I am quite aware of your significant other’s –” Mycroft cannot help but to curl his lips in disdain. “Intentions toward my brother. As is he. I think it’s up to Sherlock to decide whether or not –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John is very very sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock was very hurt by his actions, let me tell you this, Miss Morstan.” Mycroft relishes this role. That he could finally fulfill his duty as his brother’s protector. “He told me personally that he does not wish to see him –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he’s his best friend –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And to be honest, a terrible one for the last few months. Miss Morstan – my brother has suffered greatly after the events of their last case together, and he is still recuperating. I understand your wish for them to repair their friendship, but I think it's best to leave it up to them, hm? They are after all – adults.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miss Morstan resists releasing a huff of frustration at her inability to get rid of Cerberus. She had come here with false hopes, hoping that she could convince Mycroft to nudge his brother back toward his former friend. But Mycroft sees through her. Oh, she’s a persuasive soul. No doubt that under her influence, she could make Sherlock feel guilty enough to crawl back to the doctor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at her with the cool gaze that has struck fear in both lesser and greater beings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now I wonder, why are you so keen for them to get along? It’s barely been a few days since Dr. Watson has visited. A weekend, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a concerned fiancée, Mr Holmes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, sure.” Mycroft says a little flippantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets defensive. “What are you insinuating, Mr Holmes? That I have –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiles. He offers a cryptic threat. “Oh, I am sure only the good Lord and yourself know of your sins, Miss Morstan. Or rather… Satan himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miss Morstan pales a bit, before stepping away. Her tone is unyielding, yet brittle. “I’ve made my amends, Mr Holmes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That, Miss Morstan, is not for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>to judge. Nor I. Now what I do know is that my brother does not wish to be disturbed by you or your delightful doctor in any shape or form in the coming days, do you understand? If he wishes to reach out, he shall do so. He does after all have a phone. And…” Mycroft leans in just a little further, and lets his tone drop a little lower. “Miss Morstan, a Scottish king once contemplated: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse takes a few more steps back. She is practically outside the flat at this moment. There are warring emotions on her face. Anger at the fact that Mycroft knows something of her past. Fear that he could do something about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft doesn’t doubt that the idea of killing him crosses her mind, but it’s all laughable. He has trustworthy agents nearby who have already set their sights upon her as soon as she has strolled up Baker Street, a British government that is interested in keeping him alive and an Anthea who knows the truth behind who she is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could only end one way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell him.” She finally says pleadingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good, so she does have brains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Morstan. You are not in a position to make demands upon me. Good day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft closes the door and locks it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that’s settled. If Sherlock isn’t asleep by the time he joins him in their bed, Mycroft plans to make a clean breast of things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is she gone?” Sherlock murmurs to Mycroft when he joins him in the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft nods. “Yes, Lock, she’s gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You threatened her.” There is a small ghost of a smile on Sherlock’s face. “Big, nasty brother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In terms of stubbornness, brother dear, they are rather alike.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft slips under the warm quilt. His brother’s body, rather like a magnet, seeks him out immediately. Sherlock is clad in pyjamas underneath. Mycroft sighs when Sherlock curls up against him, his head resting against Mycroft’s chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is really his favourite part of the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did she want, My?” Sherlock tilts his head upward to catch a glimpse of Mycroft’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good question. I think, Sherlock, they want your assistance. Or rather, Miss Morstan does.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. The nurse who killed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. She begged me. You know. At the end. To not tell you the truth. But, you already knew. Well, somewhat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew she was a liar from the outset. Which makes her interesting. I suppose I ought to tell John, but somehow, I don’t think he would take it too well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t think so. I would not advise it by any means.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He will blame everything on me. Again. So where is she from originally? America? They don’t take too kindly to their operatives going rogue.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To them, she’s dead. But that’s besides the point. Anthea and I have stumbled upon a server that we affectionately named Pandora’s box. It has the dirty laundry of many people around the globe. It’s run by a heinous sort of a man. A Charles Augustus Magnussen –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good god, Mycroft – do you mean to tell me that he has dirt on you too?” Sherlock flips over, turning to look at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. But it hasn’t stopped him from trying. He likes to make people dance to his tune. He’s already filthily rich and powerful. In the last decade, he has consolidated many major media networks across the globe into an empire of sorts. To control or rather influence the proles with his preferred propaganda. The aim being to maintain the status quo. Alas, he still prefers to control people personally. And his next target, or shall I say current target is the woman we know as Miss Mary Morstan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodness, and she would like me to stop him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. But his game hedges upon your relationship with Dr. Watson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. He wants to get to you at the end of the day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what is it you want me to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing. I rather suspect that she will have to turn to her old ways when the screws get turned tight. Magnussen has grown rather soft during the last few years. I think he might find that the only cure for blackmail at the end of the day is a bullet to the brain.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh John –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I may give you some advice on relationships, Lock – it is to avoid being caught in between husband and wife regardless of their state of matrimony. It will only lead to resentment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Sherlock looks at him for a long moment before saying. “Thank you for telling me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Lock. I will work from home tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are the best, Mycroft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiles, before pressing a little kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. “Let’s go to bed. I suppose we can do some more thinking about your killer tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Raz had traced the spray paint to a small art store in the suburbs of London. The artist had made the trip, interrogated the owner who had sold the custom-made paint and concluded that the man who had bought the paint resembled the picture that Mycroft’s bug had taken. The man had paid in notes every time, always seemed to be in a hurry and hardly spoke, if ever. The last time the suspected killer had bought paint from the store had been Wednesday. Two days before he had made an appearance in Harry’s flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To keep things short, it had been another dead end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry had an idea.” Lestrade says to Sherlock in the kitchen two days later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was her idea?” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That she goes back to live in her flat. And –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wow. Sherlock is amazed. He doesn’t need Lestrade to finish to know that Harry had offered herself up as bait. Considering what kind of state she had been in when Sherlock had initially met her in, he’s rather impressed. The Watson bravery. Or as Mycroft likes to say – bravery is just a kind word for stupidity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told her that it is absolutely out of the question.” Lestrade says firmly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock paces across the kitchen floor. He could sense the waves of desperation radiating from the copper. Hell! He’s pretty desperate at this point too. No leads, except for the knowledge that their killer wants to finish what he had started. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you telling me this?” Sherlock asks, bewildered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I am desperate, Sherlock. I mean I’ve never had so many bodies and no killer!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade’s phone begins to ring again. The copper picks it up, just as Sherlock feels a chill run down his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lestrade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say that again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The DI visibly pales as he listens to the other end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh fuck. Another one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade abruptly hangs up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another death.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just before Lestrade could continue further, Sherlock jumps when he hears someone pounding at the front door with their fists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock! I need to talk to you!” John’s furious voice could be heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade looks sympathetically at Sherlock, knowing the state of affairs between the two. Oh god. It’s Mary – isn’t it? She’s the new victim. A mix of emotion fills him, just as Lestrade guides him to his bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me deal with John. And Sherlock, none of this is your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, Mary wanted to speak to me a few days ago.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head as Lestrade gently shepherds him into his room and closes the door. He could still hear John shouting angrily and banging on the door like a caveman from the outside of the flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s stupid. How had things become like this? Him quivering like a child in the face of his old friend’s wrath. He reaches for his phone, and calls Mycroft as he throws himself on to the bed, wanting to curl up in a ball and never wake up from this horrid existence. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up. I need you, brother mine.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mr Holmes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft is interrupted from his walk from the Prime Minister’s office to his own. Ah. Here’s that slimy malevolent bastard in all his glory. At least his own hairline is faring better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr Magnussen, a pleasure as always.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither offers a hand. Ever since that fateful mission in Italy, Mycroft has seen this man (and talked to him!) a handful of times in his capacity as a ‘minor government official’. But he would never forget what happened in that villa in Italy. The revolting things that he had made the daughter of his old flame do. Oh, Magnussen had enjoyed it to the fullest, having her at his beck and call only to still destroy her hopes at the end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magnussen’s eyes dart over Mycroft’s body, trying to decipher all its tells. Looking for any hint of a weak spot. Mycroft could almost see the cogs turning in the man’s head, of hypothetical schemes and games of power. The way his eyes seem to dance with sadistic delight. Although Mycroft himself is unable to gain anything specific from his own deductions, he could tell that there must be several little fires he must be kindling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm… and there something else too… revealed in the creases of his suit. it seems that Magnussen has a lover. A mistress? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, this is very much a paramour of the male persuasion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fascinating. This is certainly something worth looking into.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Mycroft’s phone starts to vibrate in his pocket. Oh fuck, it’s Sherlock. Mycroft knows it without having to look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Magnussen smiles widely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you should pick that up, Mr Holmes. A happy Missus is a happy home.” The innuendo in his words is unmistakable. “Good day, Mr Holmes – I would never dream of interrupting the domestic felicity that you’ve strived for for so long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Magnussen has walked away, Mycroft heads back to his office. He’s never seen the man so confident. Does he have evidence to back up his conjectures? Or is this a bluff to draw him out? Anthea had been certain that there hadn’t been compromising information on that server involving Sherlock and himself, but there could always be another vault. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What to do?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I will call you right back. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock dives under the quilt, tuning out the sounds of a still-on-the-warpath John. Or at least trying to. He could hear John yelling and screaming about how he had refused to see both him and Mary, and that Mary had needed help – and… that this was all his fault to Lestrade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He could feel hot tears coming out from his eyes, and fuck it has been days since he had last cried. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why can’t he be himself? Why couldn’t he solve the case of this lousy serial killer? Why is he struggling with the basics of everyday life like a pathetic fool? And now clearly he’s called Mycroft at an inconvenient time. He can’t recall the last time that Mycroft had outright rejected a call like that from him. But then he hears his phone start ringing, and he quickly picks it up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock. What’s wrong?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything. It’s… it’s Mary. She’s…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock tries to stop crying, but it’s bloody impossible. He wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hush little brother, it’s alright. What about Miss Morstan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s… she’s… dead. And John… John –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could hear footsteps approach his bedroom door. And Lestrade’s firm no-nonsense voice. “Don’t go in, John! For fuck’s sakes, none of this has anything to do with Sherlock –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s mad at me I think, My. I am in my room. Lestrade – ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Good Lord, if he touches a single hair of yours, he will regret it. And – you are sure about that, little brother – that it was Miss Morstan that was –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I saw it on Lestrade’s face when he got the call – oh fuck –” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His bedroom door is forced wide open, and then there is the sound of Lestrade tackling John against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Greg, you tosser! Get off of me! Fuck. Some bloody friend you are!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave Sherlock alone. You’ve done quite enough, John. What makes you think that you are entitled to his help after ignoring him for months on end –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am coming home, Sherlock.” Mycroft says decisively before hanging up, and Sherlock could only curl up tighter in his quilt, wishing for the din to die down.    </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Mycroft returns to Baker Street, all is quiet. Both Dr. Watson and the DI have departed. The flat door had been left unlocked. He hangs up his coat and brolly before finding Sherlock under the covers in their room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Lock. Darling boy.” He says gently as he sits on the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My…?” Sherlock whispers cautiously, his voice hoarse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock. It’s alright. They are gone now. It’s just me. Your Mycie.” Mycroft lets his hand rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, hidden underneath his quilt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I am a mess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard John yelling outside, and I just… I don’t know. Froze? And then he tried to come in here, and Lestrade… well they fought. It’s all a blur. And the next thing I knew… they weren’t here anymore. It’s all my fault, My – that everyone is miserable. My fault that Mary is...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Lock. Never. God. None of this is your fault. How would we have known that the killer would have gone after Miss Morstan next? Besides, are you even sure that she was killed by the same person? Considering her adventurous life before she settled down… You know more than anyone that these sorts of individuals die as they lived – and that is violently. And you… you don’t owe that damned John Watson anything. Friends come and go, Lock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Sherlock sniffs. “It… it still hurts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Mycroft sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother is one big teddy bear. So much for the functional sociopath. He longs to take his Sherlock away. Somewhere far far away where no one could ever find them. Where he could keep him safe. Where they could live in peace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what hurts more. Knowing that I can’t be what I was. The consulting detective that people go to for solutions to otherwise unsolvable things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock, you can do whatever it is you want. I believe in you. And even if you want to pursue new things, I will be with you every step of the way.” Mycroft says firmly, letting his fingers tenderly comb through Lock’s curls that aren’t completely covered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock doesn’t say anything in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s body relax under his touch after a few long minutes, and he himself could feel his own worries melt away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things would be okay at the end. They’ve got to be. When this is all over, he will take Lock away for a bit. Somewhere sunny. Warm. Perhaps in Asia. Or the Pacific. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Mummy or Mrs H would like to come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve done so well over the last few days, brother mine. I am proud of you.” He says a while later. “It’s okay to have setbacks. And again, you’ve done nothing wrong. I promise that I am telling the truth.” Mycroft knows that Sherlock needs to hear these things repeatedly. And that his brother finds his patter soothing. Sherlock might not process everything he says in this state, but that’s not the point. “It’s not fair for Miss Morstan to involve you in her past choices. There’s always a price to pay for these sorts of decisions. Regardless of how far one runs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock turns over, emerging out of his cocoon. He rubs at his eyes. Mycroft’s arms instinctively go around him and Sherlock lets him bring him close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John said to Lestrade that he was tired of lies during their fight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiles grimly. “Well, he certainly picked the right person to marry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a knock at the flat door that causes Sherlock to startle, but he deduces. “It’s Lestrade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to talk to him, brother mine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will come with you. I feel better now, Mycie. Give me a second to go wash my face.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft turns his head a little to kiss his brother on the cheek before Sherlock slips out of his grasp and heads for the loo. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is quite a shiner on Lestrade’s face. John had gotten him rather good. There is a grim little expression on his face, as the copper sits down at the dining table. Sherlock can see that he’s visited the crime scene briefly, and it had been quite grisly, even for a veteran like Lestrade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rather bloody, wasn’t it?” Mycroft breaks the silence that had fallen amongst them after a moment of respite had passed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bloody? Yes. It was quite… bloody.” Lestrade nods tiredly. “Her throat was slashed rather violently. Here, I think it’s best if you both looked at the scene yourself.” He takes out a stack of photographs. “Donovan secured the scene, so she is supervising.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too bloody.” Sherlock remarks, upon laying his eyes on the first photo. Mary is lying on her front in an examination room. There is a massive amount of blood all over the room. The floor, the table, over her body and matted in her hair. Her scrubs are hacked to pieces. “It’s… rather emotional.” He observes quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As if done in anger.” Mycroft completes the thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, and here’s the smiley face.” Sherlock takes a second picture, where the trademark had been sprayed on the wall nearby. There are also four letters sprayed next to it. All in capitals. “Oh, but there’s a message.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span></p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>AGRA </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“Who found her then?” Mycroft asks, changing the direction of the inquiry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John.” Sherlock says quietly. It made sense, with how his old friend had behaved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade does not deny it. “From what I understand, Mary opted to have lunch alone today. One of the examination rooms that is only used for imaging studies once a week is a favourite hideout for anyone in the clinic that requires some alone time. The fact that she ate there wasn’t unusual, but what was unusual was that the door was locked. No one saw anyone go in nor out during the time that she was in there, but there is a window in the room.” The copper pulls out a photograph, showing an open window. “It was open. The clinic is on the ground floor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how was she discovered?” Mycroft asks another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She wasn’t answering any of John’s texts, and when it was past her usual lunchtime, John decided to check up on her by climbing through the window. The window was closed when John got there, but as it was left unlocked – he easily went through. Per the rest of the staff, they say he went crazy, muttering how he was going to find the one responsible and put a bullet through their head. And then he left – presumably to Baker Street.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was raining pretty heavily earlier, were there any prints?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade shakes his head. “No, the window opens up into a deserted concrete alleyway, and there was nothing of interest. The murderer came and went like a bloody ghost and no one saw anything.” He shows another photo of the deserted alleyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The dumpster? Anything left behind?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One of the greener lads was digging through it before I left. We shall have to wait for that.” Lestrade slumps on the dining table. “Bloody hell, Sherlock –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should sleep, Detective Inspector. When was the last time –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bollocks. I don’t even know. I can’t sleep. Knowing that this… well monster is roaming the streets of London. I don’t blame John at all, really...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm… there’s something in her mouth.” Sherlock had taken out his magnifier and is studying one of the photographs of Mary. “Could you not call someone –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade dials his phone and gives a few orders. He hangs up, before sighing dejectedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock had worked with Lestrade for a very long time now, and he’s never seen him so hopeless. God. He’s got to solve this case. And then if he retires at the end of all this, it will be okay. He will have no regrets. He can spend his days painting and with Mycie. Or find something new to do all together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a knock at the door, and Mycroft goes to get it. He helps Mrs Hudson bring over three steaming pot pies (duck he deduces) with generous sides of sliced raw veggies with yogurt dip and apple with cheese slices. There are also glasses of 2% milk to wash everything down. Mycroft had been cutting down on his drinking, figuring that he might as well – and Mrs Hudson had been coming up with alternative beverages to help him in this endeavour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The copper perks a little at the food, and helps himself. Sherlock goes for the apple and cheese and Mycroft digs into the hearty fare, realizing that he is hungry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>AGRA. Mycroft had retrieved information on this subject a long time ago, when he had been vetting Miss Morstan. A group of four mercenaries who worked together for a long time. They did jobs for everyone. Governments. Rebel groups. The fabulously wealthy. And their last mission had been searching for a fabled treasure on behalf of a government of an economically strapped country. They had been promised half of what they found, but what they had found instead were hidden insurgents and treacherous traps. They had all been presumed dead, but clearly that is no longer the case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cockroaches, the lot!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm. If Miss Morstan survived, then there could be others that lived. Could the serial killer they are looking for be one of them? Or is this a separate killing, and the assassin had only taken advantage of the local serial killer’s calling card. It’s certainly a vengeful killing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lestrade’s phone dings with a notification partway through the meal, and the copper shows them a picture of the scrap of yellow paper that had been partially dissolved by Miss Morstan’s saliva.</span>
</p><p>
  <span></span></p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>speak.</p>
  <p>
  <span>your spot. How could</span>
</p>
  <p>
  <span>leave us. If you do not</span>
</p>
  <p>
  <span>I will tell all. It is against</span>
</p>
  <p>
  <span>that you get to pretend</span>
</p>
  <p>
  <span>live happily ever after.</span></p>
</blockquote><p>
  <span>“It’s part of a letter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft glances at it briefly before handing the phone to his brother, who had hardly touched his food at all aside from a few pieces of apple and cheese. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives Sherlock a concerned look, but Sherlock only frowns, looks quickly at Lestrade and shakes his head slightly. Lowering his gaze, Mycroft lets his eyes linger over Sherlock’s pot pie, and then back at Sherlock – communicating that he intends to feed him when Lestrade is gone. Sherlock huffs with displeasure and crosses his arms with petulance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock then says. “The motivation for Mary’s death is very different from the others. It could be likely a different killer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful. Just what we need…” Lestrade consoles himself with a slice of apple.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah, I know updates have been slow. Thank you for your patience and support :) Trying to get the muse writing, so its just been whatever that comes out.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Johnny texted me. HW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did he? SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah. About Mary’s death. HW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you know her? SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not well. Met her once. HW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Didn’t like her much, but I still feel badly about it. Johnny is still my baby bro. HW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He said that he came to see you, but never got to. HW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know. He blames me. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes. But it’s not your fault, Sherlock. I can promise you that. HW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Can we meet? HW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What about your safehouse? SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t care anymore. My life is absolute misery. The only thing I want is to catch this bastard and make him pay for everything. Johnny and I might not get along these days, but I am still the big sister. And I want to make sure that he is avenged. HW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Alright. I will see you. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are you doing, Sherlock?” Harry inquires when she walks into the flat at midday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better. I guess.” Sherlock replies as he gestures to her to hang her coat on the stand. He scrutinizes her quickly. She looks better than when he had last seen her although her eyes still betray her suffering. “I was doing well… until –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary’s death?” She nods knowingly, as she follows Sherlock to the dining table. “You know… they say we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I felt like there was more to her than what meets the eye. I remember when I met her, she avoided any topic that had to do with her life before John. As if she had something to hide. Of course, she answers the direct questions. Simple one-liners that may or may not be true before changing the topic. I only realized it because I do the same – I never like to talk about my past either. With… my drinking. Depression. My homophobic parents. All she wanted to do was to talk about her days in the clinic with Johnny. About her future children. The house with a dog and a white picket fence in the suburbs! Could you imagine anything more boring?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles wryly as he sits down. “It is… rather dull.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Personally, he couldn’t see John living that sort of life. The John he knew back in the day – when they had been consulting detective and blogger, had been a man of action. Ready to roam the streets of London at a moment’s notice. Ready to point his gun and shoot at the latest criminal mastermind. How hopeless he had looked before the ‘Study in Pink’! And how solving cases had given him his zest for life back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” The memory of John hammering the door like a battering ram, demanding that Sherlock be accountable for his wife’s death visits him again. John’s raw rage had terrified him. He then admits. “I feel like I don’t even know him anymore.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone vibrates. A text. Sherlock looks at it, feeling a coldness run throughout his body. John hadn’t contacted him since the day of Mary’s death. Which had been two days ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was pregnant. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Molly just texted me. They are doing the autopsy today. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why didn’t you help her? JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I was a father. JW </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was a little girl. We would have named her Rosamund. Rosie. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How could you! She was my life! She was everything! So sweet and warm. Yet tolerated no nonsense! Beautiful. JW</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The texts keep going. Harry plucks the phone out of Sherlock’s nerveless hand, and scrutinizes the texts before making a face of disgust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ Johnny!” Harry makes a face. “Sometimes shit happens, and it’s no one’s fault. Well, in this case – the killer’s.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or her own.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sherlock had grimaced internally at the idea of the little girl being given Mary’s real name. A little arrogant, is it not? To flaunt the fact that she’s gotten away from it all? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I blocked him on your phone. Sherlock, don’t listen to his nonsense. As his sister, I say it’s not your fault. No, no – don’t say it. It’s not your responsibility to chase down every sad piece of shit that has ever walked the streets of London. Johnny always had an anger issue. It’s why we can never stay in each other’s company for too long. His anger is misplaced. He should be mad at the bloody murderer, not you!” Harry looks furious. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It had been his job to chase down the elements of criminality on London’s streets. Before he had jumped off Bart’s…</span>
  </em>
  <span> He had been the apex predator. Moriarty – his finest prey. Now, even the outside world at large was too much for him. It frustrates him beyond reason that things have not changed much in that regard since a few months ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This… agoraphobia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone vibrates again, and Harry passes it back over to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you want to have a look at the body, Sherlock? GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to go?” Harry asks curiously, just as Sherlock offers in an attempt to stave off a touchy subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want anything to eat? To drink?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both look at each other, suddenly feeling rather vulnerable. Sherlock hasn’t seen a body in person for a case since who knows when. Harry has obviously been avoiding the fundamentals for life as well. Eating, drinking, sleeping – for instance. Ha. They are two broken individuals – how could they possibly think about joining forces to rid the world of (a) serial killer(s)? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s ludicrous!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe… this isn’t such a good idea.” Harry says slowly after several minutes have elapsed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know – Harry – tell me more about you. I hardly know anything of you. John was never –” Sherlock speaks at the same time, trying to break this spell of inertia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She speaks readily. “Well, you know I am Johnny’s older sibling. I am older than him by five. That I was previously in a relationship with Clara, and I have a… problem with booze. It’s inherited. The booze – not the gayness, although I suspect my family – Johnny included – aren’t as straight as advertised. Our Father, or rather sperm-donor – was both physically and verbally abusive to everyone. Even more so to me when we both realized that I was a lesbian. Neither of us see our parents, but the damage runs deep, having grown up under such circumstances. For the longest time, I was a functional alcoholic. I worked as a financial analyst and made bank, quite literally. And then, the cracks started to happen. I started drinking more, sometime when Johnny got himself shipped off to Afghanistan, and you know what happens…” She then looks up at him, “I think you were an addict too. It takes one to know one –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles wryly at that. “Well, booze isn’t my thing, but most drugs were fair game for me back in the day. Cocaine and heroin were my go-tos.” He then stands up to make tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, would you look at that – Johnny was telling me about how you </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>make tea.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can tell him to piss off.” Sherlock sets the kettle to boil, and hunts down some tea bags. “I made tea whenever he wasn’t in the flat. He was useful at times to have around. To do all the tedious things.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry laughs. “Oh, I like you – Sherlock. Too bad that you aren’t my type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs harder when Sherlock pantomimes a pair of boobs by cupping the air around his chest, and a curvier bottom by cupping the air below his buttocks before walking with an exaggerated feminine gait. “God, but any woman would die to have an arse like yours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They generally don’t like dealing with the arse attached to the arse, you know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, but if you were genuinely into women, Sherlock – you would find no shortage of women willing to tolerate asshole behaviour. I can tell that you prefer men.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.. hm…” Sherlock hums noncommittally as he prepares Harry’s tea with a splash of milk and honey – just as how she prefers it, and gets out a tray of lemon squares that had been recently baked by Mrs H. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as Sherlock bites into a square, a phone chirps several times in succession. It’s Harry’s. They both watch the screen with horrid fascination as message after message get sent.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hello, Harry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I have finally managed to track you down. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, my lovely tart. I am sure you remember me, don’t you? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t even bother tracking down this phone. It’s a burner. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just how are you doing, my lovely?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think we should meet soon, shouldn’t we? A tango for two? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fine. Don’t answer me. I will see you soon, darling. Just have a few more errands to run. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Watch this space! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>xoxo :)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think, Harry – you need a new phone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is puzzled. Harry already had gotten a new phone since she had moved into the safehouse. Somehow… he has an inkling that their killer may have access to resources that regular everyday citizens do not. Her safety may already be compromised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Harry’s hand is trembling, and Sherlock takes the phone away from her before she could drop it. “He says… he has errands to run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps a few more hits he has in mind. Hm.” Sherlock notes the phone number, and quickly texts Lestrade the details. He also takes a picture of the texts and forwards it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tell Harry I will arrange for her to have a new phone. And for the love of god, she should be in the safehouse! GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lestrade, I can tell you that after years of living with one: one does not tell a Watson what to do. SH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry gives a weak smile when Sherlock shows her the texts. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And, will you see the body, Sherlock? GL</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were right, Sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I usually am, Anthea.” Mycroft offers a small smile. With teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Janine is a lovely girl.” Anthea says happily. “We had a beautiful time together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Out of curiosity, who did you go as? Francine? Sally? Cadence?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Sir – it’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> since I did any </span>
  <em>
    <span>leg</span>
  </em>
  <span>work. To mark this special occasion, I made myself a new persona. Azora. Thank you for the most generous budget – Janine was enthralled with the seven-course menu.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I even want to know where you two went?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>had three Michelin stars, Sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anthea, </span>
  <em>
    <span>three </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the maximum.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well – we had a most wonderful dinner, Sir. We went to her place after and –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing Anthea’s evil grin, Mycroft exclaims. “Spare me the details!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you wish, Sir. Although I do have to say that if I were telling this story to Sir Edwin, his opinion would be the marked opposite.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mind your audience, Anthea.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Sir. But, indeed – Magnussen has a new boy-toy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. And Janine did not spare any details. She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite </span>
  </em>
  <span>sloshed, Sir. Like you said, Magnussen has a habit of pretending the staff do not exist while being abusive when he remembers that he has them. So, she has been sneaking pictures and videos whenever she could. After our </span>
  <em>
    <span>vigorous </span>
  </em>
  <span>–” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft winces, but Anthea carries on. “Evening, I took the liberty of copying everything from her phone. It’s quite enlightening, Sir. He calls his pet, Jay-jay. The man does have interesting kinks. Such as a big piss fetish –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not unknown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes – I forgot, Sir – you were a first-hand witness years ago. But the thing is, Sir, I think when a fish outgrows their pond, they become rather cavalier toward their questionably legal activities. I will forward you the link to my new server, containing all the information. Oh, and one thing – Janine told me before she lost consciousness that not all is hunky-dory in paradise. She overheard the two having an argument over some ‘bitch’ named ‘Mary’ the other day that ended with Magnussen yelling angrily ‘Stay out of my shit, Jay!’ before storming off to his office (which is off limits to everyone) and slamming the door behind him. Jay-jay then walked past Janine in her office, and muttered under his breath. ‘I will show him, the old fool.’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was that before or after the death of Miss Morstan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir, I believe it was after.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. Fascinating. Thank you, Anthea.” He then changes the topic. “I think this weekend is a good one to head out to the countryside, hm? They say that spring has sprung early this year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so. Perhaps you should take your brother with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think Sherlock would very much appreciate that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will continue digging in Janine’s data to see if there’s anything usable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Certainly, Anthea – as you know – you do have carte blanche in regards to the matter at hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you are so kind to me, Sir!” Anthea blows him a sloppy wet kiss and walks out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lestrade wants me to go see Mary’s body.” Sherlock says when Mycroft finally gets home after an arduous day at the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think it’s worthwhile, little brother?” Mycroft asks as he hangs up his coat, before kissing little brother’s cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve lost it, Mycroft.” Sherlock looks so dejected that Mycroft instantly hugs him close to his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We could go now, if you’d like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would come with me?” Sherlock’s eyes seem to brighten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. We could go somewhere else too after. A late night date?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds lovely.” There is a bit of apprehension in Sherlock’s tone, but it’s a good thing if he doesn’t object to it directly. “I should… I should go change then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As should I. Care to… remove my tie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles at that. His fingers immediately go to unfasten the Windsor knot. “Course, brother dear. You know that I always enjoy removing articles of clothing from your person.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock takes a step back when they enter the morgue. He had forgotten that Molly is on shift tonight. He hasn’t seen her in a long time now. Nor had he been answering her texts. Gripping Mycroft’s arm tighter, he gathers the tatters of his courage and follows his brother inward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly gawks at them. No doubt she isn’t used to seeing Mycroft out of his three-piece suit. His brother is wearing a tasteful grey turtleneck with a complementary pinstripe coat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Ms Hooper.” Mycroft says pleasantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Evening, Mr Holmes. What brings you here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am escorting my brother to see the body.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock.” She turns to him. Her eyes are accusatory. “You… you never call. You never text. You haven’t been here in ages. I thought I meant something to you. A friend at the very least. And…” She looks again at Mycroft. “You’ve never needed an escort before…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Molly…” Sherlock feels helpless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice shakes as he says her name. How could he even say the words to make her understand? That he could barely leave Baker Street let alone come here, to a place that he had used to call a second home. Where he had done his infamous experiments with cadavers. Where he had come again and again to examine the slain, trying to coax out their last messages that their bodies had to tell in order to bring them peace. This is a woman that had had a crush on him forever. But he wonders, would she still care if she found out the extent of the damage that Serbia had wrought? Or perhaps she would find him pathetic and a poor representation of what she had built up to be him in her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ms Hooper. The body, would you mind?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s voice is no-nonsense. Even out of the ‘Minor Government Official’s’ vestments, his words cause Molly to hurriedly abandon the body that she is currently working on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother is by nature an authoritative man. Sherlock had loathed it when he had been a young adult, trying to flounder his way in the world, but now – he is all too happy to have Mycroft smooth the way for him. He gives his brother a grateful look, and Mycroft’s hand reaches downward to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The body, Mr Holmes.” Molly gestures them over to Mary’s body, just pulled out of the shelving unit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Ms Hooper.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock grimaces when he sees the corpse. The killing blow had been the slash to the neck. The carotid. It would have been quick. Mary would have bled out so fast that she wouldn’t have known what was going on. There are other knife wounds. The killer had been furious. Unlike the killing blow, the others are amateurish in comparison. He had continued to slash at Mary’s body with his right hand. Left, right, left, right – until he had run out of real estate. Certainly there must be history here. Lestrade’s men had found the bloody knife (and even a bloodstained raincoat) in the dumpster in the alleyway bagged up in a plastic bag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary knew the killer. It had been someone in her past that she had wronged somehow. She clearly didn’t anticipate that he would kill her right then and there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soft living makes one… well soft. Sherlock would know. He had lived such a life when he had been dismantling Moriarty’s network, although he is no assassin by trade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was pregnant.” Molly says quietly, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts. “Oh, I feel so badly for the both of them! John told me that they were going to name her Rosamund. You should have seen him Sherlock… when you were gone. He was a shell, and Mary helped breathe life back into him again. It’s hard to believe that she is gone. I was at their place a week before her murder, and we had a lovely dinner. The three of us. They had wanted a child so badly.” While she says that, Sherlock notices Molly pat her own belly, no doubt wishing that she was pregnant too. Hopefully not with his baby! “You must find her killer! She was so sweet and witty and –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ms Hooper, if you have nothing of import to say, please keep it to yourself.” Mycroft almost growls. “Appearances can be deceiving.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock sighs in relief when Molly makes a displeased noise and huffily walks away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her phone.” Sherlock then looks up at Mycroft. “It was never found, was it not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Lestrade never mentioned anything about her phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think the murderer took it, do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s long been destroyed, Sherlock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so too.” Sherlock reaches for his phone and texts the question to Lestrade for him to follow up on. “But what does AGRA even mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It refers to a group of assassins, Sherlock.” Mycroft whispers quietly in his ear. “Each letter represents a member. R being for –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rosamund.” Sherlock nods. He then puts on a pair of gloves and tries to open Mary’s mouth further – trying to see if there is anything else left behind aside from that scrap of letter while Mycroft shines a light from his phone to aid his visibility. “So her killer is someone who knows about her past. Or even one of the members of the group. You must tell me everything, Mycroft.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In due time, Lock. I promise. But the gist of the story, from what I know – is that all the members of the fabulous four were thought to have perished at the hands of insurgents, while looking for a legendary treasure on behalf of a fragile local government which no longer exists at this point in time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The intel was wrong then. Mary was very much alive. Hm… she has an interesting collection of scars.” Sherlock points to various ones, including some cigarette burns. “Wonder how she explained them all away to John.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be easy, Lock. An abusive past. It’s perfect.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you see something that I missed, My?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I don’t see anything that you missed. Do you want to go?” Mycroft asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, let’s –” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens, and Sherlock hears the voices of Lestrade and John approach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shouldn’t have come here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Courage, brother mine. You are doing very well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You!” John immediately points at Sherlock just as Lestrade grabs him by the arm to prevent him from jumping at Sherlock. “How dare you show up here! You didn’t care about Mary when she was alive, why the fuck would you –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr Watson.” Mycroft seems to grow taller as he looms over the ex-flatmate. “Kindly put a sock in it. Lestrade. We will be leaving. Good day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drags a nerveless Sherlock out of the morgue, and hurries him out of Bart’s to the more pleasant part of their evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It seems wrong, to leave London at a time like this.” Sherlock says to Mycroft as his brother offers him a spoonful of congee from last night’s takeaway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On the contrary, I think some fresh air will do you a load of good, Lock.” Mycroft gently reaches over to stroke his brother’s cheek after Sherlock takes his bite. “I just… want to take you away from here. Away from everything that sets you off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he turns slightly so that he could rest his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. It’s beautiful to see how much little brother trusts him now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finish up your </span>
  <em>
    <span>youtiao, </span>
  </em>
  <span>dear – and we will make a start. The earlier we leave, the earlier we will get there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother obediently finishes up his breakfast while Mycroft finds his interest piqued by a cell phone left on the table that is neither his or Sherlock’s. He turns it on. It has no password. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm. This is Harry Watson’s new phone. The one the Met had gotten her after she had been moved to the safehouse. Little brother didn’t tell him about this visit by the older Watson sibling. He reads the texts by the killer and he sends a text to Anthea.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think you need to pay special attention to this Jay-jay fellow. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>On it, Sir. The strangest thing is that there is nothing on him in any database that I’ve run his information through. Janine didn’t know too much about him, aside his recent relations with CAM. Ax</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What is interesting is that Miss Morstan was intended to be CAM’s next victim, but the killer got to her first. You don’t think that this is a coincidence, do you? MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And that CAM was mad over it? Perhaps, Jay-jay is involved in it somehow. Too soon to tell, anyways. Any chance you think Jay-jay is someone also in CAM’s clutches, Sir? Ax</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not the first time CAM has had a human sex toy, Anthea. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Surely no one goes to CAM just simply for the satiating of one’s kinks, Sir? Ax</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stranger things have certainly happened. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Certainly, Sir. Ax</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jay-jay has a game to play with CAM. Our friend is playing with fire. MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, Sir, he has always been a kinky one! Janine told me he had a predilection for urinating in fireplaces before making someone lick it up after. Ax</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anyways, Sir, it’s nice chatting with you on this lovely Saturday morning. If you need till Tuesday to get back, I’ve got you covered. I will keep you informed on any developments. Ax</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you texting, Mycie?” Sherlock had just finished the rest of the leftovers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am proud of you, Lock. You ate everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft beams at his brother before gently reaching over to hold his hand, entangling his fingers with Sherlock’s seemingly frail ones. They still have a long way to go toward getting his brother hale and healthy again. But any step in the right direction is welcome. He then answers the question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anthea. We are talking about Magnussen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come, brother – let us get going, let’s talk on the way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock gives him a long reluctant look, but he stands up and goes to get ready for their jaunt into the countryside.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The light patter of rain falls steadily as Sherlock watches Mycroft tackle the motorways. It’s March now. He’s been back in London for half a year, yet hardly anything feels like how it had been before he had left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow with every sign they pass indicating that they are getting further and further away from London, the dark burden he had been carrying seems to be lightening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What does this say about him? The old Sherlock had loved London. Loved seeing what new and kooky thing the criminal elements were cooking up in its streets. A peaceful day had been a dull day, with him sullenly sitting on his armchair or the couch, plucking or sawing away at the strings of his Strad, conveying his restlessness. His need to be entertained by the latest fashion of criminals. He ought to feel guilty that he’s leaving the serial killer behind, but he isn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will have to find something else for you to do, Lock.” Mycroft muses with a teasing tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if I can’t do anything, My?” Sherlock mumbles, half believing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, then you could always warm my bed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would hit you, but you are driving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A pity.” Mycroft says nonchalantly. “People pay quite generously for bedfellows these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps I should negotiate a raise.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am already your personal chauffeur, pillow, butler, credit card and entertainer, Sherlock – I think you are adequately compensated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Now tell me, My – what is going on with you and Anthea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anthea is beginning a series of fantastic dates with Janine, Magnussen’s personal assistant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t realize this was part of the job description as your personal assistant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t my idea. Anthea just inquired about funds, and now she’s having a blast on my pursestrings. But anyways, she was able to discover that Magnussen has a new pet. And not the cute and cuddly kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Intriguing. And by pet, do you mean one of the sexual persuasion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. He has them from time to time. It’s not new. When he gets bored, he will discard them like trash and look for the next entertainment. What we are able to garner is that this is a man who goes by the name of Jay-jay which seems more like a nickname. But what is interesting is that Magnussen and Jay-jay had an argument over Miss Morstan after her death –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did say that it is his game is blackmail, not murder. He must have been furious, if his game to get to you – brother dear, was ruined.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. What I do not like, brother – is that he was able to track down Harry Watson’s phone, despite her being given all the precautions of the safehouse. I saw her phone sitting on the dining table this morning, Lock. I think it is likely that Jay-jay is involved in both cases –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was going to tell you about that, but it slipped my mind, big brother. Do we know anything about Jay-jay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s quite alright, darling mine. I have no picture of him. Anthea says that there is no data available on Jay-jay based on her searches, so it is likely that he is living under a new alias. It could be possible that he’s one of the four members of AGRA. I hate to say it, brother – but the most information we can probably get for our theory is to see who the next victim will be. The serial killer is no longer unpredictable – which is probably the worst mistake he can make.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. Well, you said Anthea had access to Pandora’s box. Who's the next victim that Magnussen plans to target?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a good question. There was an overwhelming amount of information in that database. It was obvious Morstan was the target of interest, as he had already prepared the materials for release in the case that Morstan did not comply with his demands. Unfortunately, we do not have access to the box at this time, although Anthea is trying to engineer another way in. It’s not so easy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was there any information incriminating Magnussen himself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. This was strictly a blackmail mine. Oh I don’t doubt that Magnussen is involved in other nefarious plots. But never have we found any substantial evidence of illegal activity. Only rumours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, then why are you getting so involved, Mycroft? You usually let things play out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because, Sherlock – he threatened me the other day. Dangling suggestions of </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>relationship in my ears. There was a video of us in Pandora’s box that Anthea had deleted. Nothing serious. Just me comforting you at the Art Gallery we went to in Edinburgh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Mycroft – it could ruin your –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it, Lock. We will be fine. In the worst scenario, we will be forced to flee the country which isn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things. The papers are already drawn up, and I already started funneling money away to offshore accounts. It’s always appropriate to have a Plan B or even C. But, if it comes to that, I would like to have something to knock over Magnussen’s house of cards as a parting gift.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are willing to give up your job?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought we discussed this, Lock. My job, at the end of the day, is a job. It pays the bills. Keeps my idle hands busy. But I am not getting any younger. You are the most important thing in my life, Lock – and I would like to keep what we have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God. Brother. Do I really mean that much –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock. You are everything. I mean it. I’ve never been happier with you in my bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is rubbing his index finger across his nose, trying to fight the sudden urge to cry.    </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Mummy – this is lovely!” Mycroft exclaims with unexpected delight when he sees the dinner table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their favourite childhood dishes made with Mummy’s time-tested recipes had been laid out on the long dining table. There is a toad in the hole, a stack of battered halibut surrounded by chips with homemade tartar sauce, a bowlful of garden salad with quail eggs and a generous serving of rhubarb trifle in Mummy’s favourite glass bowl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My darlings, I can only hope that it tastes as good as you two remember.” Mummy stands at the head of the table with an old faded flowery apron and her arms crossed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you eat with us, Mummy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And disturb you both? No dears – enjoy yourselves.” She winks before picking up a lighter and she lights the short and squat candles that sit at the middle of the table. “Perhaps, Myc – you would like to bring Sherlock to the seaside tomorrow? You two did so enjoy going as kids.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That does sound like a good idea.” Mycroft nods agreeably. “What do you think, Lock?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock smiles at the effort to include him. One of the things he had resented in the past had been Mycroft making decisions for him without consulting him. Although now, he doesn’t mind it so much, but still – it’s good that his lover asks him for his opinions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” He says, and Mycroft ensnares his leg with his under the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bon appétit, and give a holler if you two need anything else.” With one final wink, Mummy disappears after dimming the lights. It gives the space a romantic sort of glow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mummy is awesome, isn’t she?” Sherlock says in wonder, as Mycroft cuts up the toad in the hole for the both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She certainly is something.” Mycroft takes Sherlock’s plate and fills it up with a bit of everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think Father knows?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so. He isn’t supposed to be home till Monday. It was one reason why Mummy had wanted us up here this weekend. Eat up, love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock picks up his fork. The food in front of him smells good. Delicious actually. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>has been a battle day in and day out. Mycroft had cut all his food into bite-sized portions to make it easier. His own belly gurgles encouragingly. It’s a mental thing. Some meals are easier than others. Why is this so difficult?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do this, Lockie.” The foot rubs soothingly against Sherlock’s calf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s so hard.” Sherlock puts down his fork. The words of frustration bubble up readily, and he could feel tears begin to prick his eyes. “I just don’t understand. I am hungry. I just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock, come here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock stands up and rushes over to Mycroft’s side of the table. Without even thinking about it, he drops down to his knees on the cold and hard tiles of the floor next to his brother – instinctively regressing to whatever he finds comfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock… Sherlock… Sherlock…” Mycroft lets his fingers sneak into Sherlock’s thick curls. “Darling boy. It’s okay. Everything will be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if it’s not? If it’s not okay?” Sherlock sniffs into Mycroft’s thigh. “What if I never become a perfectly functional human being? I would… I would hate to see you give up everything just for –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock.” Mycroft interjects sternly, not wanting his brother to finish that sentence. It’s killing him inside, to see Sherlock like this. His brother would seem to be okay for a few days to a week, and then not. “No. God. You are functional, dearest mine.” He lets his fingers slide out of his brother’s hair, and gently relearns the contours of his beloved face with both of his hands. “I won’t ever give up on you, Lockie. I love you dearly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself mentally cursing those damned Watsons. Morstan for having the audacity for trying to emotionally blackmail his brother and having the nerve to get herself murdered. Dr Watson for his boorish holier-than-thou attitude. Even Ms Hooper and her misplaced sentiments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is love enough?” Sherlock says, his voice barely audible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It has to be.” Mycroft says firmly, trying to hide his heart fracturing just a little bit more. “When this is all over, Lock – I will take you somewhere warm and sunny, and you can forget about everything. And if you like it better there, we will stay there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock buries his face in Mycroft’s lap, silently crying. And Mycroft continues stroking his brother’s hair and the sides of his face until Mummy finally makes another appearance who knows how long later. She sees the untouched food at the table, but says nothing. Instead she walks back out and returns with a cushion and leaves it next to Sherlock, before heading back to the living room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the grandfather clock strikes eight, Sherlock feebly remarks. “You… you didn’t even eat because of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Small matter. You want to try something, Lock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s all cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A microwave works wonders, boys.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy has swept back in. She grabs their two platefuls of food and takes them away to warm them up before returning with one mug’s worth of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and spice. She places it next to Mycroft’s hand – knowing that they would share. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squats a little and runs her own worn hand through Sherlock’s curls and whispers. “Lock dear, you know better than anyone that there are ups and downs in life. And that some of the downs are so deep that you can’t see the edges of the hole you are mired in –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, Mummy. But it feels like I am drowning at times. Gasping for air and there is no land in sight. I don’t see so-much the memories of Serbia anymore, but sometimes I feel like I am in a fog. A fog so opaque that I cannot see. That I am lost. Alone. Sometimes the only solace I have is sleep. Or Mycroft. I just don’t know how to fix it for all the science that I know. I’ve read books on PTSD and depression. Did all the little exercises I could find online. Wrote down some of the worst days of my life and set the paper on fire. I’ve painted, drawn, cooked and done both meditation and relaxation exercises. I even talked to a psychologist online, but didn’t see how they could help me. Some days… it’s bearable. Somedays, I could feel a sliver of happiness. I think – I’ve always had these sorts of moods. Bouts of depression, but nothing profound. But… now… it’s an abyss and all I have to crawl out of it is a spoon. I know everyone tells me it’s time I need, but it’s hard. It’s hard to wait it out. I still can’t leave my flat without another person. I still cry regularly. I can’t tolerate conflict. There are so many things I want to do… but I just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sh… Lockie.” Mycroft says soothingly. “One thing at a time. You aren’t alone. You never are. You are beautiful, brilliant, resilient and kind –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock actually scoffs at that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft smiles. “You are. Don’t you deny it. How many times in the past have you refused monetary compensation for work that you’ve done for those who could not afford it, but desperately needed your help? Don’t tell me it’s the thrill or the puzzle that gets you going, because there are so many things you could have done with your life that do not involve the simple goldfish that I cannot handle in large doses. The trivialities of life. You are gallant and kind to a fault. People don’t see it because they are blind and superficial, but it’s your choices – your actions that define who you are. Not your mask, your demeanour. You who sacrificed your life to save those who you cared dearly about without a single thought to spare for yourself. You who would do it all over again in a heartbeat even knowing the difficult outcome. You think you have nothing to offer me. You think you have nothing to offer the world at large. That is false. For this ‘Iceman’ you are his heart. I can’t imagine my life without you in it. It seems as dark and as bleak as the abyss you describe. It was as dark and bleak during the days you went missing in Serbia. Sherlock. Sherlock. Our lives are intertwined. We give meaning to each other. We were always a little unhealthily codependent, but that’s not new. Darling. Have courage. When things are too much, always, always – come find me and we will weather the seas together as we’d done.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mummy brings their reheated food back, and Mycroft spears a morsel of fish – dips it in tartar sauce and offers it to his brother who miraculously eats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good?” Mycroft asks after giving Sherlock a few more bites.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You eat too, Mycie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am, don’t fret about me, little brother. Do you want to sit up instead? This can’t be comfortable, Lock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “No. Safe. I feel safe like this. Please just keep telling me things, Mycie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what, lover mine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brother is hesitant. His words are shy. But, oh – so sweet! “That… you love me as much as I love you. That this will pass, like everything else in my life has. That I am not alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>alone. And it’s not just me. It’s Mummy. It’s Mrs Hudson, our number one cheerleader. Even your detective inspector.” Mycroft feeds him a bit of salad. “You are so loved. Adored. Cherished. You are so strong, dearest one. I can’t even comprehend what you’ve done. What you’ve survived. Your sacrifices. You inspire me more than I could ever describe. I can’t promise that it will be smooth sailing from here on out, but we will tackle everything together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock hugs Mycroft’s waist and accepts another bite of sausage.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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